Bad Things (15 page)

“Into the cabinet, icky Ricky,” Robin whispered.

Carefully he tried to move, but his legs were rubbery. An instant later, the pins and needles started, and Ricky groaned.

“What's wrong?”

“My legs are asleep.”

Robin started to laugh. He covered his mouth with his hands and shook with glee, little raspy sounds escaping. Finally he stopped and grabbed Ricky by his pajama collar. “They think they're gonna send me away, icky Ricky, and it's all your fault! You know what that means?” he whispered hoarsely.

Ricky stared dumbly at him.

“You know what that means?”

He shook his head no.

Robin pulled him forward until they were nose to nose. His breath stank. “It means you're dead. I'm gonna getcha, icky Ricky, and I'm gonna getcha soon. Way before school starts. Not even gonna wait for Halloween. Crazy hazy Ricky, numb and dumb. I'm gonna kill you. Nighty-night.”

He let go of Ricky, then slipped silently into the cabinet and was gone.

 

 

Rick turned off the shower and stepped out, pulling the towel roughly over his body. He'd spent the rest of the night hiding in the dressing room. His fear of Robin, and what revenge he might take, overrode the joy he had felt over his parents' words.

He pulled on his fresh clothes and drew the comb through his hair. It was a wonder, he knew, that he had survived.

“Dad!” Cody called from the hall. “Carmen says come and eat!”

He smiled at the sound of his own son's voice. “Coming, kiddo!”

It was nearly midnight, and Rick lay on his bed, exhausted, yet unable to sleep in this roomful of memories. He was also concerned about the cat, who was acting decidedly strange. Not only had Quint refused to leave the room again after the one foray downstairs, but he hadn't even left his hiding place under the bed when Rick had come back upstairs. Silently he cursed Jade's poodles.

On his way down to dinner, he worried a little about dealing with open drapes and windows because he just didn't have enough energy to deal with his neurosis or psychosis or whatever the hell 'osis he had. But he needn't have worried: All the drapes were closed. Silently he had blessed Carmen, who had remembered. He blessed her again at dinner as her cooking rekindled his appetite: He'd forgotten that Carmen was a killer cook.

The only negative thing at the dinner table had been Jade. Evidently she'd used up her day's supply of nastiness, as well as any brain cells that were still functioning properly, and this combination put her in a bizarrely jovial mood that was harder for Rick to tolerate than her previous nastiness and hostility.

He was almost certain she'd forgotten his warnings about mentioning Robin, because she brought him up about every five minutes, usually to remark obscenely on his prowess as a lover. Shelly seemed to find it disgusting yet funny, and Cody was too busy building things out of his mashed potatoes to pay the least attention.

Rick, however, hated every last minute and was grateful that Carmen hustled her back to her quarters as soon as they were done eating.

Then, after she showed Shelly and Cody how to operate the TV set in the living room, the housekeeper had turned her attention on him.

“Come on, Ricky, you help me clean up and I'll give you a treat.” She nodded her head toward the kitchen, and he followed her, happily remembering all the other times she'd said that, then shared a private stash of cookies or cupcakes with him.

They did the dishes by hand, she washing, he drying, and when they were done, she brought out the treat: a fifth of Sauza Gold and two shot glasses. She brought them to the kitchen table and poured two shots.

“This isn't what I expected.” He grinned and tossed back a shot.

She matched him. “Yeah, you thought I was gonna give you a Snickers bar, right?”

“That's right,” he said with total honesty. “So how do you stand doing dishes by hand?”

“There aren't that many dishes, Ricky. Besides, I've always done them this way. I don't know what I'm missing.” She patted his hand.

“Dishwashers are a necessity of life. Mine broke down once and I couldn't get it fixed for a week. After three days, we were out of dishes. We had to buy paper plates and cups and plastic forks.”

She laughed. “You're supposed to wash the dishes every day, buster.”

“Well, I tried. I put them in the sink with hot water and soap, then I went to write my column. By the time I was done, the water was too disgusting to put my hands in.”

Carmen snorted. “So what'd you do? Hire somebody to do it?”

“Well, yeah. Shelly said she'd do it for twenty dollars, so—”

“Twenty dollars? Ricky, you must have money growing out your butt!”

“No, but it seemed reasonable. It was such a disgusting job and all.”

“Boy, that girl sure knows how to work her daddy!”

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, tomorrow we'll order a dishwasher.”

“I'm not gonna argue with you!” She poured another round. “One more to help us sleep. I read your column every week, Ricky. It's good. You're pretty funny, you know that?”

“Thanks. I enjoy it.”

They talked for a few more minutes, she bringing him up-to-date on the repair of the house, Hector, and the neighbors, he telling her about his life in Las Vegas.

“Carmen? Does Jade always talk about Robin so much?”

She studied her hands. “Tonight was worse, but she's never stopped talking about him. The dirty old woman.”

“Do you think she's dangerous? To the kids?”

Carmen considered. “Only her mouth.”

“Good.” Rick twined his fingers behind his head and stretched against them. “I'm bushed. Shall we call it a night?”

“In a minute. Ricky, I want to ask you something.”

The tone of her voice gave him a chill. He said nothing.

“Did you see them?”

“Them?” he asked, knowing very well what she meant.

“Them.
Don't play with me.”

“That was a long time ago. I was a scary little kid. My imagination—”

“Have you looked?”

“No. There's no need.”

“Madre de Dios,
you're telling me you don't believe in them anymore, but you won't look out the window? I think you're lying to yourself.”

“Would I come back if I believed in them?” He held the shot glass with both hands to hide their trembling.

She stared holes through him. “No, I guess you wouldn't. I'll tell you what I think, Ricky. I think you better take a look, just to make sure.”

“And what if I see them, then what do I do? Check myself into an asylum?”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You just go look out the window and you'll be free of them, once and for all.”

“Maybe.”

“Does Cody know the stories?”

“No.”

“Good. You make sure and have him look out the window tomorrow night, and make sure you're with him, whether you saw them or not. He's young enough, he'll tell you if he sees something. If he does, I think you better go back to the desert.”

“You really believe—”

“I just believe anything is possible.” She stood up. “Come on. You gotta look.”

“Carmen—”

“We're gonna get it over with. Come on.”

She took his trembling hand in her firm, dry one, making him feel seven years old again. Meekly he let her lead him into the living room. Cody and Shelly were sprawled in front of the TV, Cody fast asleep. Carmen let go of his hand, stepped forward, and scooped Cody into her arms. “Okay, Shelly, time for bed.”

“What? It's too early!”

“I know. But your dad and I want to talk.”

“Dad, can't you talk in the kitchen?”

“There's a little TV on the dresser in my room,” Rick told her. “You can take it in your room for now.”

“Little?” she asked doubtfully.

“Shel, Carmen and I want to watch something on PBS.”

“What?” she whined.

“An opera,” he said.

“Yeah,” Carmen lied. “When your dad was little, we always watched the opera.”

Shelly rolled her eyes. “You're kidding.”

Rick put his arm over Carmen's shoulders.
“Rigoletto.
Hey, I have an idea, Shelly. Why don't you watch it with us? You're old enough to enjoy—”

“No, thanks.” Shelly stood. “I'll take him,” she said, lifting Cody from Carmen's arms. She started up the stairs.

“Night, Shel.”

“Night.”

Carmen crossed to the set and turned it off, then flicked off the light switch. “You can see better if it's dark. You ready?”

“Sure,” he said dully. Outside, a summer breeze had come up, and he told himself he didn't hear his name within it.

He controlled the old panic quite well as he waited for her to return to him. Suddenly his hand was in hers again and she was leading him forward, toward the window. “Don't trip,” she said as he raked his shin on the end table by the easy chair. She led him to the center of the picture window. “Stay there.”

He closed his eyes and waited, listening to the drapes open, listening just as he had so many times so many years ago. He swallowed, feeling as if he were in front of a firing squad.

Her hand returned, and he could feel her standing next to him. “Ricky, look now.”

He couldn't open his eyes. The wind called.

“Ricky?” She waited.

“I can't.”

Both her hands enveloped his. “Yes, you can. You have to.”

“No.” His voice broke.

“Ricky, they can't get you in here.”

You jerk,
he thought fiercely.
You asshole, you moron. You're making a fool of yourself. Again.
He was afraid he was going to cry.

Carmen's voice was soft and gentle. “Remember Thomas, Ricky? Remember him?”

Thomas McEnery Piper.
He remembered his first hero, the one preceding Don Quixote. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

They were out there in the night, dancing beneath the oak, their voices riding the wind. In the night. In the wind.

Ricky
. . .
Ricky
. . .
Ricky
. . .

“No,” he whispered.

“You see them?” Carmen asked.

He pulled away from her. “No. Good night, Carmen.”

Barely controlling his panic, he took the stairs as sedately as he could, then, out of sight, he trotted to his room. The door had no lock, so he shoved a chair under it, then threw himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his eyes wet.

 

 

Since then, he'd gotten up to check on Cody, and found him peacefully asleep in the bed nearest the door. The curtains weren't closed, but that was fine because he could see that the window was locked tight. Shelly, too, was fine, asleep on the bed, the TV still playing. He'd turned it off and returned to bed.

That was an hour ago. He stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then rose and walked into the dressing room.

After that night, when they'd heard their parents talking about sending Robin away, Ricky's spirits had briefly soared, but Robin took his revenge so quickly and gleefully that his life grew instantly worse.

Before June 7, the night of the eavesdropping incident, sleeping in the same room with Robin had been a trial that he could stand because he knew he could go to Carmen's room if it got too bad. But on the night of June 8, he nearly didn't make it.

 

 

Ricky had almost asked to sleep in Carmen's room, but he didn't want to do it in front of his parents—he worried that they might ask him why—and he couldn't get her alone. Finally he'd gone to bed, and was so tired that when he saw that Robin appeared to be asleep already, he didn't even wonder if he was playing possum or not. He didn't have the energy to wonder. Sometime later, he awoke.

Ricky felt them staring at him, watching him, and he pulled the covers around his body, over his head, and waited, almost suffocating in the close crush of blankets, feeling the eyes boring into him, feeling his own hot breath push the sheet in, out, in, out, like a doctor's mask on TV. His fear receded slightly as he made believe he was Hawkeye Pierce performing open-heart surgery and everyone was cheering and applauding, especially his parents and even his brother. Then, finally, the inevitable song began.

“Ricky, icky Ricky, I see you-ooo.”

“Stop it,” Ricky whispered into the sheet.

“Stop it, drop it, says icky Ricky.” There was a thump as Robin dropped to the floor. “Whatcha scared of, sicky icky?”

“Nothing!” Ricky pulled the covers from his face and gulped the fresh, cold air. “I'm not scared of nothing!” But it took every ounce of courage not to hide his head again.

“Nothin'?” came his brother's voice, closer now. “Not afraid of nothin'? Liar, liar, pants on fire. Icky Ricky, you're afraid of me! Me! Me!”

Panicked, Ricky reached for the bedside lamp and turned the switch. Nothing happened. He tried again.

“Maybe it got unplugged, picky Ricky. Why don'tcha come down here and look?”

Ricky bit his lip to keep from crying. “Stop it!” he pleaded.

Robin didn't answer. Instead, Ricky heard his brother's hand-slaps as he crossed back to his own bed, the creak of the handgrip attached to the headboard, the protest of bedsprings as he swung energetically back onto his bed.

Burrowing into his covers, Ricky relaxed slightly. Usually Robin's teasing only lasted a few minutes, and though he still imagined he could feel his brother's eyes on him, he closed his own, hoping the worst was over, letting drowsiness overtake him slowly, peacefully . . .

“It's kinda hot in here.”

Startled, heart pounding, Ricky awoke, knowing time had passed, but not how much. The bed frame creaked, and he saw Robin's silhouette across the room. He was perched on the end of his bed, next to the window.

“Don'tcha think it's kinda hot in here?” As he repeated the words, he turned the latch. Thin moonlight slashed the room as the white curtains fluttered with the incoming breath of night air.

Ricky
. . .
Ricky
. . .
Ricky
came the voices on the wind.

“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky,” sang Robin.

Ricky pulled the covers back over his head.

“Icky Ricky, Icky Ricky, come out and play.” Robin bounced up and down on the bed, babbling softly.

“Close the window,” Ricky begged.

“It's only open a little,” Robin said innocently.

“Please.” Ricky choked on the sudden flood of tears. For a short time, he'd lost his fear of the greenjacks, but under Robin's constant threats to throw him out the window, the fear had returned.

“Crybaby, titty mouse.”

Suddenly Robin swung off his bed, and almost instantly was on top of Ricky. He yanked the covers once, twice, and Ricky lost his grip.