Wicked Cruel (4 page)

I sit on a bench and read the obituary again. I could show Uncle David, to prove that his urban legend idea really did come true, but I think I’ll keep this to myself for now.

After dinner David says he’s going down to the Shamrock Tavern for a few hours. “It’s open mic night,” he says, picking up
his guitar. “And I ought to pay my respects at my father’s old hangout.” Grandpa died a long time ago. Grandma, too.

I go up to the attic. Spike is lying on my bed, purring in her sleep. I lie next to her. I’m tempted to look for that Freewheeler video again. With David out of the house I’m kind of scared to even go online, but I can’t hold back. Maybe I can learn something more.

Gary’s sent me another link, this one to the funeral home’s “guest book” for sympathy notices. I click on it to see if anyone cared. The notes are addressed to Lorne’s parents: “So sorry to hear of your loss,” “Our deepest sympathies,” “In our thoughts and prayers,” etc. Then there’s one that makes me think a little harder.

Whew. A “lengthy hospitalization” and “lingering distress.” Sounds like his days in Pennsylvania weren’t too great. I swallow hard and blink a few times, then lie on the bed and shut my eyes.

There was another time.

I’m walking up the dirt hill from the Little League field a couple of springs ago, carrying my glove and minding my own business. The game had gone well—I didn’t strike out and
had fielded the few balls hit my way in left field without any trouble. I had a couple of red Twizzlers that I’d tied into knots and was gnawing on them. This wasn’t exactly a shortcut, but I liked climbing the rocky path and cutting through Wheeler Park on my way home. This was wilderness compared to most of Cheshire Notch.

And there’s Lorne, sitting on a boulder alongside the path. I look back and see that you can watch the baseball games from up here, although the view of the field isn’t great.

He jumps off the rock, right into my path. “How ’bout a bite?” he asks.

“Of what?” I know he means the Twizzlers, but no way he’s putting his mouth on them. I’ve got them balled up in my hand and was enjoying the rubbery texture as much as the flavor, so they’re all slimy from my spit. Why would anyone even want a bite of something like that unless it was your own?

He doesn’t respond to that anyway. “I saw you ground out twice,” he says triumphantly, as if that’s such a big deal. Even the best baseball players only get hits about a third of the time. And Bainer isn’t even in the league.

“Better than you,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I play in a professional league for kids over in Boston on Saturdays. I’m leading the league in home runs.”

“Sure you are.” This
was
a Saturday. And Bainer had never demonstrated any athletic skill. Like anybody would pay him to play baseball.

He climbs back up on the boulder. “Let’s chuck rocks,” he says.

“At what?”

“Anything. Squirrels. Trees. Bet you can’t hit that window.”
He points down the hill to a storage shed in the lot behind the baseball field. There’s one small window in the door.

“That’d be stupid,” I say. “Why would you want to break a window?”

He shrugs. “Just something to do.” He jumps down again and picks up a stone. “I could hit somebody in the outfield from here if I wanted to. Nobody would ever know where it came from.”

I look down the hill. The players for the next game are on the field, but there’s no way he could throw it even half that far.

I’ve had enough of him. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be a baby. Stick around.”

“Get lost.” I start walking.

“Come on, Jordan,” he pleads. “Let’s hang out together.”

I don’t even reply. When I’m about thirty yards away I hear a
thunk
and see a stone bounce into the woods. I doubt that he really tried to hit me with it, but he came close enough. I turn and call him a jerk.

He picks up another stone, but I know he doesn’t have the guts to throw at me again.

“Put it down,” I say.

“Make me.”

“You think I won’t?”

“You’re chicken.” He starts making
buck-buck
sounds.

No way I’m letting a guy like Lorne Bainer get away with that. I start running toward him. He holds his ground for a few seconds, then turns to get away. I catch him immediately and tackle him to the dirt.

“Lay off!” he cries.

I get to my knees and grab his shirt with both fists. “What’d you call me?”

He turns his head, wincing. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“You’ve got the nerve to call me a chicken?” I shake him a bit. He makes a very obvious sound in his throat as if he’s gathering saliva to spit at me.

“I wouldn’t try that if I was you,” I say.

He spits at me anyway. I let go with my right fist and bring it back. I hesitate, and he starts crying. “Lemme go,” he says.

I push him into the ground and step off him. He scurries into a ball and covers his face. “Come on, Jordan,” he says. “I was fooling around.”

“By throwing a rock at me?”

“It didn’t hit you. I was just kidding.”

“You’re an idiot, Bainer. A total jerk. Stay out of my face.”

He stands up and brushes off his knees, then gives me that stupid, challenging smile that I hate. He can go from crying to laughing in about a tenth of a second. “Let’s hang out for the afternoon,” he says. “You got any money?”

“I wouldn’t hang out with you for a million dollars,” I say. I start walking again, throwing the dusty remains of my Twizzlers into the brush.

That was a few months after the thing in gym class when his forehead hit the chairs. Right before the Bainers moved out of state.

Spike yowls suddenly and runs downstairs. I look over at the computer screen and catch a glimpse of Bainer’s face. Just a split second, but it’s him, glaring at me before the screen goes blank.

I hit the space bar and the screen lights up, but it’s just my desktop—not Bainer. But he was there, right? He was.

Or maybe I’m imagining things, just a vivid memory playing tricks on me.

One thing’s for sure. I’m not staying in this house alone.

*   *   *

The Shamrock is off Railroad Square, half a block in from Main Street, and Dad says it’s one of the quieter downtown bars. That’s because it’s mostly older people; not enough action for the college crowd, I suppose. I’ve never been in any of the bars, of course, but you hear stories.

It’s raining very lightly, but it’s still fairly warm. There are small piles of dirty snow here and there, but most of it’s melted away. The streets are quiet. The alley you take to the Shamrock is dark, but there’s plenty of light coming from Main.

I can see Uncle David sitting at the bar with a mug of beer, but he’s turned away from the front window, talking to somebody on the next bar stool. I take a seat on a bench under the awning and wait for him to come out. Could be a while.

A police car goes by on Main with its lights flashing but no siren. An older man in a green Celtics cap walks a black Labrador past. Soon two scruffy guys who might be students come walking up.

“Hey,” one of them says to me as he reaches for the door. “You get kicked out?” He laughs.

“Could you tell my uncle to come out here?” I ask.

“Sure. Which one is he?”

“He’s sitting at the bar. Argyle sweater-vest. Ponytail.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

David comes out a few minutes later and lights a cigarette. “What’s up, Jordan?” he asks.

“Just wondered if you’d be coming home soon.”

“Pretty soon.” He looks back through the window. “They asked me to play another set and I just got a fresh beer.… I’ll be home by midnight.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe sooner,” he says. He digs into his pocket and pulls
out a couple of dollar bills. “The Citgo’s open, right? Get yourself a candy bar. Tomorrow’s Saturday; you can stay up tonight. Watch TV till I get home, okay?”

“I guess.” I grab the bills. He takes a drag on his cigarette and flicks the rest of it toward the gutter, then goes back into the bar.

I start thinking about where I can kill a few hours till he gets home and still keep my eye on Main Street in case he leaves the bar early. Brewbakers Coffee Shop stays open until midnight on weekends. I can get a hot chocolate and sit by the big front window. With the two dollars David gave me and some of my own, I should be able to pay my way and not get told to leave.

There are two guys at a table near the back of the very narrow café, huddled over a laptop. The only other customer is a balding man in a black Star Wars T-shirt that’s too small for him. He also has a laptop, and the coffee he’s drinking is in a paper Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

The skinny college kid behind the counter looks bored and sullen when I walk in, but he perks up when I come over. “Help ya?” he asks. His shirt says Cheshire Notch Cross-Country.

“Could I get a hot chocolate? For here.”

He nods and turns to make it. It’s kind of dark in here. Folky rock music is playing from somewhere, but I can’t identify it. This place has a hippie vibe to it, like much of the downtown: organic coffee, grainy homemade breads. I take off my jacket and drape it over one of the chairs by the window, and sit at a wobbly table the size of a garbage can lid.

The ceiling is old tin, and the wood floors are scuffed and wide-paneled. There’s about a dozen of these little tables; the walls have posters that say things like,
THE DOORS—FILLMORE EAST—MARCH 22, 1968
or
OPEN POETRY NIGHT, SUNDAYS 6 P.M.

The guy comes over with my hot chocolate in a ceramic mug. “You all right?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet my uncle here, but I’m way early. I might be hanging around for an hour or so.”

“Cool with me,” he says. He sits across from the Star Wars guy and they start talking about video games.

There’s a rumpled
Boston Globe
on a table, so I skim the sports section. Before long the wind picks up and the rain, too, and it starts driving against the window. Nobody comes in for a long time.

When I reach the bottom of the hot chocolate, there’s a quarter inch of gooey chocolate syrup, too thick to drink. So I get a wooden stirrer and eat it like ice cream.

By 10:30 I’m feeling antsy and figuring that I ought to buy something else, even though the other three guys are still here and they haven’t bought anything since I arrived. An older couple comes in, shaking off the rain, and they order decaf coffees to go. I get on line behind them, keeping an eye on the street. Every once in a while groups of college students have walked past, but there’s been no sign of David.

I get a blueberry muffin and a couple of napkins and go back to my table. I’m getting tired, but I know I couldn’t possibly sleep if I went home. Maybe if David’s in the house, but definitely not if I’m alone. I have to decide where to sleep, too. He’s got the couch, so I’ll probably sleep on top of my parents’ bedspread. (I don’t want to mess up the bed and have them think I was scared to be in the attic.) No way I’m going back up there yet. Not a chance.

Bainer’s dead. How is he doing this?

By 11:30 the clerk is sweeping the floor and I’m the only customer. No sign of my uncle, of course. I get up and leave.

I walk past the Shamrock again. There are more people in there and the music is penetrating through the walls—AC/DC, I’m pretty sure. I still have a clear view of the bar. David has a full beer. He’s pumping his shoulders to the music, and the woman sitting next to him is laughing about something.

I guess I can sleep on the couch till he gets home.

I take the side streets to avoid attention from the cops, since it’s coming up on midnight. There’s a loud party going on at one of the college rental houses; people are sitting on the roof above the front porch. The wet sidewalk in front of the house is shiny with bits of broken glass.

Our house is only a few blocks from the college, but we’re in a quiet neighborhood. No rooming houses on our street. It’s a dead end with only a dozen houses backing into a wooded wetlands area.

There weren’t any lights on when I fled the house earlier, so I turn on every one as I make my way around downstairs. I also turn on the TV; my dad had it tuned to one of the ESPN channels, so it’s showing a poker tournament. I’m soaked from the rain and all of my clothes are upstairs. So …

I grab a flashlight from a kitchen drawer crammed with masking tape, rubber bands, toothpicks, and batteries, and make my way up. Every step creaks. I get some light from the second-floor hallway, but the stairway to the attic isn’t lit. The only light in my “bedroom” is a lamp on a table on the other side of my bed, so most nights I feel my way up the stairs, climb onto the bed, and reach over to the lamp. Usually it’s no problem. Tonight I want the flashlight.

The attic is pitch-black. I stop halfway and listen hard. Then I inch the rest of the way up and shine the light on the
bed. I see a slow movement, a slithery sort of rising. The beam catches two eyes.

“Spike,” I say, letting out my breath. “Come downstairs with me.”

The cat rushes past me and I can hear her going all the way down to the living room. I pull off my shirt and pants and grab some dry things, then shine the light around the attic, into the corners and under the bed. Nothing.

But then I hear a high-pitched ringing and a couple of beeps—my computer turning on. The screen flashes and I back slowly out of the room. My stomach clenches as I hear the opening notes of “Way Back into Love,” and I move as fast as I can down the two flights of stairs and out the front door.

The doorbell rings about six times and I lift my head and try to focus. I can smell coffee, and the sunlight is coming through my parents’ bedroom window.