Croak (4 page)

Uncle Mort stopped the bike and turned around in his seat to admire his handiwork. “You’ve got a little mud on your face.”

“No shit, jerkwad,” she said with a grimace, wiping it off. “What’s next? Will you be setting me on fire?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lex. The flamethrower shoots forward.”

Lex couldn’t take it anymore. The madness had to be stopped. “Okay, wait a minute.
You
are my Uncle Mort? My father’s brother? A certified biological member of the most boring family on earth?”

“Guilty as charged. And I’m ecstatic to see you, kiddo. When your dad told me that you were becoming quite the handful, well . . .” He glanced sideways, his mouth twitching wryly at some inside joke. “I simply
had
to invite you.”

“To suffer through your little ride of death? We could have been killed!”

“
Could
have been killed. You’ll note that we weren’t.”

“Barely! What is going on?

“Relax, Lex. I know it seems strange, but all will be explained in good time.”

“Explain it now!” She punched his arm, a healthy dose of rage flowing.

“You
are
a spunky one, aren’t you?” he said, ignoring the blow. “Big bro said you were full of piss and vinegar, but I really had no idea.” He scratched his chin, thinking to himself. “This’ll work out better than I had hoped.”

Lex looked at her fist in shock, baffled that she still hadn’t inflicted the usual amount of pain. “Fine, be all cryptic,” she said in a misguided attempt to use reverse psychology. “I don’t care.”

“Wonderful.”

This infuriated Lex all over again. She jumped off the seat, only to be grabbed around the waist and wrangled back into it. “Let me go!” She tore off a mirror and brandished it in his face. “I mean it! I don’t want to go to your godforsaken hellbarn, you retarded psycho farmer!”

He let out an amused snicker. “I’m not a farmer.”

Lex stopped railing for a moment and blinked in confusion. “Then what are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m in the business of importing and exporting.”

She rolled her eyes. “Call it whatever you want. It still involves fertilizer.”

“I suppose it does, in a manner of speaking.”

Lex gritted her teeth. Among her many other shortcomings, she was not a patient girl. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand to be in the dark, irked and befuddled by a blatantly unhinged man who spoke only in riddles.

“Don’t worry, Lexington,” he said in a warm, avuncular voice. “You’ve got a truckload of potential, I can tell. You’re going to excel here.”

“Excel at
what?
Asking pointless questions that never get answered?”

“Oh, absolutely. But in addition to that—” He pried the mirror from her hands and smiled enigmatically. “This is going to be the best summer of your life. Trust me.”

As all kids know, it’s difficult enough to trust any adult, much less a deranged, life-endangering importer-exporter. As her uncle kicked the bike into gear, the possibility that maybe he really was a mass murderer crept back into her mind. Of
course
he was. Of
course
he had a machete stashed somewhere in the woods. Her small intestine would soon be strewn messily across the road, her head bouncing off into the trees like a kickball.

The tires slogged through more mud as they drove deeper into the very heart of the Adirondacks. The sky had all but disappeared from view. She peered over his shoulder, but could see nothing more than the rise of a small hill.

“We’re here,” Uncle Mort said as they came to a halt at the top.

“Where?”

He pointed ahead. “The godforsaken hellbarn.”

Lex stared. And stared.

Gone was the thick, ugly brush of forest. In its place lay a valley below, with rolling hills of green stretching as far as Lex’s stunned eyes could see. Dazzling blue ponds glittered furiously as the sun finally broke through the clouds. A gentle breeze wafted through the leafy trees and up the hill, bringing with it the luscious smell of lavender, vanilla, and freshly cut grass.

Uncle Mort turned to her and smiled.

“Welcome to Croak.”

“I gotta be honest, Lex,” Uncle Mort said as they continued down the hill into town, slowing the bike so they could speak without yelling. “You look just about ready to soil yourself.”

Lex shot him a glare, then eyed a sign at the side of the road that read
CROAK
!
POPULATION
: 78.
The number clicked over to 80 as they passed.

She scrunched up her nose. “That was weird.”

“But accurate.”

Lex gazed at the handful of small buildings as they passed by. “I don’t get it. Where’s the town?” she asked, searching into the distance.

“You’re in it.”

“This is
it?
”

“It is small,” Uncle Mort agreed. “But it’s got heart.”

Lex assumed he meant this literally as well as figuratively, since both sides of the street were lined with blooms of brilliantly red bleeding-heart flowers. As she gawked at the short buildings, she got the eeriest feeling that she had stumbled into a historical theme park. The storefronts just seemed so old-fashioned, like they were part of some bygone era of yore, or maybe even yesteryear. She had only ever seen places like this on the evening news during election years, when politicians invaded to kiss babies and purchase homemade pies from smiling, toothless bakery owners.

“Please tell me you have running water,” she said.

“Of course. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Croak’s a pretty modern place. Up there are the Pine Condos, where some of the younger people live, and a few good shops on the right down Slain Lane.” He pointed to a side street paved with cobblestones, unlike the smooth pavement of the one they were on. Lex craned her neck and spotted a handful of oddly named stores: a flower shop called P
USHING
D
AISIES,
a mattress place labeled
THE BIG SLEEP
, and a grocery store with a giant sign reading
BOUGHT THE FARM
.

At the junction of the two roads, a gravestonelike obelisk rose out of a small fountain. Uncle Mort nodded to the left. “Best diner in the universe right there. Hello, Dora!” he called to the ancient woman sweeping the sidewalk outside. She waved cheerily.

“And the library’s up on the left—oh, but check this out, our pride and joy,” he said with reverence, looking straight ahead. At a fork in the road stood the tallest building in town, clocking in at a whopping two stories. The Victorian house was painted a sunny yellow, with friendly letters spelling out the word Bank across the façade. The wooden front porch contained a hammock, a small table, and, naturally, a pitcher of lemonade. “We take our investments very seriously.”

Lex struggled to take it all in. She had never seen a bank that looked as though it could double as a summer home. Nor could she conceive of a place that didn’t seem to have a single traffic light. And the quaint, nostalgic street sign labeled Dead End rather than Main Street only confirmed her suspicions that the town had surely lost its quaint, nostalgic marbles.

Then, just like that, it was behind them.

The bike veered onto the fork to the left of the Bank and passed a large field on the right. Across that, a dozen or so houses stretched down the other fork, looking like any other suburb in America.

Lex squirmed in her seat. “Are you kidding me? That was
not
a town,” she said. “I mean, where’s the Starbucks?”

Uncle Mort sighed. “Lex, I know you’re from New York, so I’m going to forgive you for that. But let me tell you something right now, something that I don’t want you ever to forget: Starbucks is an abomination.”

Lex was speechless, for she now believed there was no way in a million years this man could possibly be a blood relative.

“And here are my digs,” he said as the bike slowed. “What do you think?”

Lex no longer knew what to think. The house was practically a larger version of Uncle Mort himself—loud, schizophrenic, and potentially fatal. Speckled with all manner of colors in no apparent pattern, it looked as if it had rolled around the countryside picking up random items and whatnots before finally coming to a halt at the top of its grassy hill.

Lex ogled the bizarre devices poking out of each window as the bike rolled to a stop. She took off her helmet and dropped it to the ground. “You really live here?” she asked, her voice tinged with the faintest trace of warmth. This house, in all its chaotic glory, reminded her of her bedroom back home.

Uncle Mort dismounted the bike. “Yep. And now, so do you.” He handed her a set of keys. “Your room is the first door on the left.”

Lex, who from the moment of her conception had never had a room of her own, snatched the keys out of his hand and tore into the house. If she really was going to be stuck here for the duration of the summer, she might as well become accustomed to the living quarters in which she would undoubtedly be holing herself up. And at least this was an actual house with actual walls and not a crusty, fetid hayloft, as she had feared. It almost seemed—she hardly dared to think it—kind of cool.

She burst into the front hallway. Unsurprisingly, the kitchen was a mess, and the living room was buried under piles of unidentifiable paraphernalia. Useless junk clogged each pore. Empty photograph frames collected dust at every turn, while a large tank of jellyfish stretched across an entire wall, like a live mural. The luggage Lex’s mother had sent sat at the edge of it all, blending in perfectly. Lex grinned, her sense of alienation abating. This was exactly the way she and Cordy had always preferred to live: in utter squalor and disarray.

Tingling with anticipation, Lex ran down the hall to her room and flung open the door.

Her face fell.

No bedlam. No eyesores. And not a single useless trinket.

Instead, a beautifully carved armoire stood gracefully in the corner. Next to it, a desk made from spotless white oak. Pink bedding, curtains, and rugs, as if a flamingo had exploded. And worst of all, looming on the wall across from the frilly, perfectly made bed: a
Titanic
movie poster.

Lex shrieked in horror and slammed the door. “What was
that?
”

“What’s wrong?” Uncle Mort asked as he entered the house. “You don’t like it?”

“I hate it! Were those doilies?!”

“Dammit.” He sighed. “I thought I could trust him with this.”

Lex glanced at the slightly open door across from hers, on which was tacked a poster of The Who. She peeked through the crack, but all she could see was a massive set of drums. Next to that, another door was wide open and spewing a heavy stream of smoke. She squinted down a set of stairs at several bubbling vials of goo.

“Your basement’s on fire.”

“Oh, that’s just my lab,” Uncle Mort calmly replied, closing the door and fanning the sulfuric fumes away. “I like to tinker.”

“I see.” Lex strayed back into the living room and looked around, confused. “Where’s the TV?”

“I don’t have one.”

“WHAT?” she yelled. “WHAT?”

“After a few days you won’t even care. And don’t worry about your room, it’ll all be fixed by the time we get back.”

“Get back? Where are we going?”

“Out. Can’t very well have the redecorators come in while you’re still here, can we? Besides, we have to talk.”

“Yeah, right.” She let out a huff, walked into the kitchen, and sat down, throwing her muddy feet up onto the table. “You almost killed me about twelve times in the past hour. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Ah, but you are.”

“Make me.”

“Gladly.”

And with a lightning-quick swoop of his arm, Uncle Mort grabbed his niece by the waist yet again, flung her over his shoulder, and walked out the door.

***

As she was lugged upside down through the empty streets of Croak, Lex thrashed with a ferocity that would have impressed even the most seasoned probation officer. Yet Uncle Mort seemed not to notice, and before long, Lex’s protests were reduced to nothing more than an occasional groan.

“Almost forgot—I promised your family we’d call when you got here,” he said cheerfully as they passed into the other end of town, his shoulder digging into her stomach more and more with every step.

Lex, now fairly nauseated, jammed her elbow into his lower back and propped up her addled head onto her hand. “Here’s an idea,” she said weakly. “You put me down, I’ll use my cell.”

“No reception for miles. Hence, the Cuff,” he said, indicating the strange band around his wrist.

“Fascinating. Put me down.”

Uncle Mort ignored her. “Gotta make a personal call first.” He did something to the Cuff—it turned staticky again and stayed that way—then began to quietly scold it. Lex thought she heard him utter a few key phrases like “it’s a bedroom, not a Victoria’s Secret,” but by now she was teetering too closely to the brink of unconsciousness to even guess what was going on.

“I am about two seconds away from vomiting all over every inch of you,” she told her uncle in a slurred voice as he hung up.

“And me without a poncho. Pity.”

She riskily let out a small burp. “Oh God. Put me down. Please?”

“Was that a magic word I just heard? Did an ounce of politeness just escape the mouth of Lexington Bartleby? I think it did!” And with a surprising gentleness, he lowered his queasy passenger to her feet.

“Good?” he asked, giving her a hard pat on the shoulder.

“Yep.” Lex’s eyes focused, then unfocused. “Nope. Head rush,” she said on her way to the ground.

Five minutes later she woke up and squinted at her uncle’s hovering head.

“Hey, kiddo. What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lex.”

“What month are we in?”

“July.”

“Yankees or Mets?”

“Mets.”

“Good girl.” He yanked her up from the ground and pointed at a nearby hill. “This way.”