Cosmo (7 page)

‘Okay,' I say, catching my breath, shaking my head. ‘Just gimme a minute. And no rough stuff. That was way,
way
too rough.' I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘So The Ultimate Warrior lost,' I continue, thinking about how we can get through this without killing each other. ‘There's a rematch coming, of course, but the last thing we want is a repeat of last time – which, I've gotta say, was a total
debacle
.'

‘A total de
ba
cle, yeah,' Eddy says, grinning.

‘Don't smile. I was gonna rip your head off. Anyway, how're we gonna make it different? How're you gonna win?'

Eddy stares straight up. ‘Train hard,' he says, eyes on the spidery cracks of the plaster ceiling.

‘Right,' I say, edging closer. ‘Train hard, but The Warrior is already in peak physical condition. You can't get any stronger. You've seen your muscles – your veins are like bungee cords. But you're not up against a physical adversary – this challenge is emotional. Spiritual, even.' I curl my fingers and drop my voice to the 'Taker's gravelly baritone. ‘You're up against an opponent who wants more than your body – he wants your
soul
.' I roll my eyes up into their lids. ‘Just like with Jake The Snake, you're going to have to face the dark side, face your fears, before you're ever gonna be ready to pin the Demon from Death Valley.'

Eddy drops to all fours, staring me in the eye, his bangs falling sweaty over his brow.

‘How must I face the demons?' he grunts, in his totally inaccurate imitation of The Warrior.

‘Just pretend I'm your spirit guide. First things first: let's determine, exactly, what scares you most.'

Eddy backs up until he's up against the door. ‘No …' he whispers, still in character.

‘Yes …' I say, holding my gloved hand toward him. ‘And I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of naming your own fears. I'm gonna decide for you.' I think for a minute. ‘First one, since you've already told me today how much you don't like them,
spiders
.'

Eddy rubs his face, looking at me like I've just pronounced his death sentence.

‘No, I'm not …' he says, breaking
kayfabe
, breaking character.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘Second. Second is … the skull mask.'

Eddy whimpers. The skull mask is an old family legend: a rubber Hallo­ween mask that has a long history of being strangely, horribly magnificent. It was, and is, an ancient and evil threat: a distorted mass of puckered white skin made to look like bone, fringed with a foul-smelling lion's mane of wispy grey hair. We used to hide the mask in drawers and cupboards where we'd keep bleach and other poisonous chemicals, just so Eddy would keep his distance. This'll be cool, I think – whether Eddy can deal with the mask is a real point of interest. A few years back, it would have been impossible.

I start thinking about the next challenge. As the third and final hurdle it'll have to be the ultimate experience in terror. I think long, weighing my options, Eddy looking pale and small against the door.

‘The casket!' I say, finally. ‘The casket.'

Eddy frowns, his mouth open.

‘Remember the trunk? The tickle trunk?' In our basement – the cold, concrete cellar, Keith's rarely used ‘workroom,' where we store our old winter coats and boots and Keith's garage jumpsuits, with the boiler standing dusty in the corner and the single bulb swaying on its chain – deep in the far corner is the
tickle trunk
. The trunk's four feet long, about two and a half feet deep, and navy blue. I figure the trunk will be an adequate stand-in for the real casket they used to seal up The Warrior last April on
TV
.

‘Yeah …' Eddy says, cautiously.

‘Well, that's gonna be your final test. You get what I'm saying, Warrior?'

He gets it, all right; tears spring to his eyes.

‘Think about it. After you finish, you'll never be afraid of the basement again. It'll be bullshit fairy stuff to you. No more nightmares. You'll be able to go down and bring us up some Cokes or grab a beer for King Shit. Who knows? Maybe Halloween won't be so fucking scary – maybe you can come trick-or-treating with me this fall.'

‘Can't we just wrestle?' he asks.

‘Sorry – but if you wanna beat the 'Taker you're gonna have to pass the tests. Face your demons. Become a true warrior.'

‘How long?' he asks.

‘Not that long. Thirty seconds,' I guess, knowing he won't make it much longer. ‘And I'll be there with you the whole time. You've got nothing to worry about.'

‘There's so much, though: spiders, skull masks …'

Somebody drops a bottle outside. Manic laughter ensues.

‘How about this: we do it all at once. You hold the mask in one hand, the jar of spiders in the other. Then we close the lid. You wait thirty seconds and it's all over, we can have that rematch and you can pin me, fair and square in the middle of the ring.'

He still looks unconvinced.

‘Okay, fine,' I say, taking this further than I know I should. ‘Final offer. We can let Gorilla out. Just for a bit. We can carry him downstairs.'

Eddy considers this, his face brightening. ‘Can I play with him for an hour?'

‘Sure,' I say. ‘But if he gets outside we're dead.'

‘Can I use a chair in our match?'

‘All right.'

‘Can I jump off the dresser?'

‘No, but you can jump off the desk.'

He thinks about it. ‘Okay,' he says, his voice low. ‘Let's fucking do it.'

I'm about to tell him to watch his mouth, but I find myself so seriously proud of him for going along with the plan, I decide to let it slide. But then I think, what kind of babysitter, sister and tag-team partner would I be if I did?

So I don't.

‘Watch your fucking mouth,' I say, and help him to his feet.

 

We edge open the door to the spare bedroom, making sure the puppy can't squeeze his way through. And while Eddy sits and plays with Gorilla, who squeals and licks and runs circles around him, ecstatic for the company, I clean up the two neat piles of shit he's left on the carpet. We fetch his leash and then slink down to the basement door, making sure the coast is clear before heading downstairs.

Our house is pretty new. It's a townhouse built about twenty years ago. There are no ancient, creaking floorboards or sealed-off attics, no threat of Indian burial grounds or eighteenth-century hauntings. You're more likely to find a bucket of kfc bones than a leering human skeleton. Besides, Eddy's old enough not to be so shiveringly, pathetically afraid. His fear of the basement puts all similar chickenshit bedwetters to shame. His affliction should be studied and monitored, recorded in some scientific journal as the Most Ridiculous Fear Ever. Maybe if Eddy could face his fear of the basement, of the dark and of his dreams, he'd be tougher at school. Baby steps, I think. First conquer your fear of the unknown, of the stuff that can't actually hurt you, and then move on to the stuff that
can
: the bullies, the swirlies, the insults. One day Eddy will stand up for himself and move on to singles competition; one day we won't have to be jobbers.

I make sure the lights are on, that there are no ‘witches' waiting for Eddy before we head downstairs. Eddy waits on the main floor with the dog on his leash and the spider jar under his arm while I investigate the basement for monsters or murderers. From outside, we can hear a male voice yelling
Don't give me that! Don't give me that!
followed by repulsive peals of laughter. We haven't seen Mom or Keith in a while, so they're obviously having a wild time, which is good news for us.

‘It's ready,' I say, taking the leash and holding his free hand as we descend the stairs. His palm is warm and clammy in mine.

First, I push past swaying grease-monkey jumpsuits, locate our old box of Halloween costumes and dump the contents onto the floor: silken robes and scarves, clown costumes and party hats and Ninja Turtle masks, fake fangs and a plastic scythe. And, of course, the skull mask, as twisted and grotesque as I remember it. With the mask tucked under my arm, I go after the tickle trunk, clearing a few other boxes off the lid and cracking it open. It's hot inside; it smells like stale bread and stage makeup. I dust it out for insects or webbing or mould. Then I drag the box across the ground so it's yawning before Eddy, who stands before it in his Warrior costume.

‘Not backing out, are we?' I ask, crossing my arms, letting the skull mask dangle.

Eddy looks at the trunk, the Cheez Whiz jar of spiders, the mask hanging limp and ghoulish in my hand. Something turns, clicks, in the clogged machinery of his mind.

‘All right. Now. Now,' he says.

‘Spoken like a true warrior. Every victory begins by conquering
yourself
.'

He gazes into the open box. Slowly, cautiously, he steps inside, one foot after the other. He hands me Gorilla's leash, and I scoop up the shivering dog and hold him against my shoulder. Then Eddy's crouching, sitting, finally turning on his side and drawing up his knees. It's a tight fit for Eddy's excessive flab. After a bit of wriggling, he's found a comfortable enough position, his arms wrapped around his shins. I hand him the sealed jar of spiders. Then I place the skull mask under his chin, just to see if he's got the guts. He's got his eyes closed tight, starts breathing rapidly.

I wait a moment, enjoying this show of bravery, this potential for change. This little kid in a Speedo curled up in an old chest.

‘Rest … in …
peace
,' I say, and close the lid.

After a second I hear him puffing, gasping, making this low weird noise from the back of his throat.

‘It's all right, Warrior,' I say. ‘You know I'm right here.' The ceiling light flickers, still wobbling from when I knocked it while dragging the chest. ‘There's nothing to fear but fear itself.'

‘
Warri-or!
' I hear, muffled, from inside.

‘Here, just so you know I'm close, I'm gonna sit down on the lid. You can hear me tap on the roof, know that I'm just inches away.' I hear a faint shout of approval. I ease down on top of the trunk, straddling it, my legs banging against its clasps, holding Gorilla in my arms. Then I wrap my knuckles on the top, humming The Ultimate Warrior's entrance theme. From upstairs and outside, I can hear the foggy sounds of the party, still in full swing: that distant funhouse of mingling conversations, scraping lawn chairs, clinking bottles, the screen door whacking open and shut. I look forward to the quiet that will eventually settle on the house, for the humidity to finally break. Sleeping in on Sunday morning and heading out, not having to look after Eddy or babysit a yapping dog. Driving around in Shannon's dad's car, messing around with her video camera. Going to the bonfires, drinking, flirting with the Grade 13s. Not having to talk about wrestling. I've earned a break, I figure. I've been so goddamned good.

It's been about twenty-five seconds. I start a countdown for the last five. ‘Okay, you ready? Five, four, three, two and … you're free!' I yell, sliding off the box and setting Gorilla on the ground. Then I open the lid.

Or … I don't. Or, I move to open the lid and something stops me. I'm not lifting it right, I think. I spread out my arms and yank from both ends.

Nothing. It's gotta be the gold latch, I think. It's been knocked down to the locked position. But since there's no lock, no key, all I have to do is flip it back. The latch swings up easily, and again I pull on the lid.

Still nothing. I shake the trunk a little. ‘What the fuck,' I mutter.

‘Lemme out,' Eddy says.

‘Hold on.' I walk around the other side of the box and start pulling. I try to jam the tips of my fingers into the crevice beneath the lid. I attack it, yanking, jostling, rubbing my fingers raw in about fifteen seconds.

Eddy's moaning something, but I'm not paying attention. I stand up and give it some distance, scowling. There's gotta be something, something I'm miss–

Then it hits me – hits me like The Warrior's running boot to the gut, and yet just the outline of a memory, from two years back: Keith cutting a promo about using the trunk for certain ‘supplies.' That he wanted to figure out a way to keep the lid locked, so Eddy or I couldn't get inside. ‘Man's gotta have a place to keep his privates,' was what he said, rubbing that damned cleft in his jaw. Said – and
oh god
, I think, remembering – that if you put enough weight on the lid, if you pressed down on it harder than normal and waited until you heard a certain
click,
then it would …

I whistle in amazement. My head, my chest, my stomach – everything starts vibrating. I have to piss, have to drink some water, have to lie down.

‘
Please, please
,' Eddy's moaning. Then, before I can say a word, say something reassuring or comforting, he starts to scream. His first scream is probably involuntary; it's short and surprised, but the sound of his voice ricocheting back to him in that tiny casket, in the black – it's all too much. He starts screaming wildly, crazily, hiccupping through sobs, like he's being tortured, like he's been buried alive. Gorilla Monsoon begins barking in a frenzy, sprinting around the box and scratching the sides. And I stand there, lips still in the shape of a soundless whistle, bare feet frozen to the concrete floor.