Bone Meal Broth Page 6
“Dude, calm down. You’re acting like a douche,” Barry said, glancing up from a copy of the Victoria’s Secret catalog, pretending to take only cursory notice of his friend’s tantrum.
“Don’t tell me to calm down. It’s our first Halloween as high schoolers, you’re just as excited as I am,” Tommy said.
“Well, maybe not just as, but I still think it’s going to be fine… and fun.”
“This is supposed to be our year to go out and wreak real havoc. It’s our graduation to the major leagues. We’re supposed to be covering the whole town. How are we going to do that if we have to wear snow gear?”
“It’s not like it’ll ruin our costumes. We don’t have any. Isn’t your brother driving us around anyway?”
“Okay, wiseass. What about Christy McDern?”
“What about her?”
“I’m sure she was going to wear something slutty. How is she going to make a parka look slutty? It’s not right, Barry. It’s not Halloween.”
Barry thought about this for a second, then shook his head and raised the catalog to hide his face. “You don’t even know for sure that it’s going to snow. These weather jerkoffs are never right. Saying it’s going to snow on Halloween is just good for their ratings.”
The day was here, Halloween night was approaching, and a light dusting of snow was beginning to fall, just as the weatherman said it would.
George got back home from the store around the same time that the elementary schools would be getting out. He didn’t want to miss any trick-or-treaters. Parents were bringing their little ones out earlier and earlier over the past decade. Returning from trick-or-treating before dusk seemed to George to defeat the purpose. He’d heard that on some History Channel show that it wasn’t even technically Halloween until the sun went down.
At least the tradition itself had weathered the storm of bad press, urban legends, and America’s growing fear of everything, neighbors included. There were no razor blades in the apples or the Now and Laters, and there never had been.
The snow had begun to fall softly, and as he walked up his icy sidewalk, George could not help but be depressed by the way his porch looked. One paper skeleton in a top hat taped to the outer glass door and one lonely uncarved pumpkin sitting on the top step, collecting a fine layer of snow around its brown stem.
As he reached the door, he shifted all three grocery bags to one hand, put the key in the lock, and brought the pumpkin up and inside with him using his free hand.
He had the blues. Maybe it was the snow, maybe his dead wife, or maybe the fact that he hadn’t felt so much as a tickle in his pecker for the better part of a decade. All of these reasons or none of them, it didn’t matter. He felt that his melancholy was justified either way.
Carving the pumpkin would make him feel better, he was sure of it.
Tommy and Barry stood next to the car, hands in pockets. It was red ’88 Thunderbird with more rust than paint. Tommy’s brother had great taste in automobiles but no cash. He’d found the car on craigslist and had taken the Chinatown bus up to Boston to get it. It had broken down twice on the way back to Long Island.
Tommy held a 7-Eleven bag in his hand. It was filled with two dozen eggs and topped with a tube of shaving cream. He set the bag on the hood of the Thunderbird and rubbed his hands together.
Barry put his hand down the front of his pants. “I think my frozen balls are retreating into my stomach for warmth. Where is he?”
Tommy laughed with slight unease and exasperation. “He’s out fucking your sister. He’ll be here in a minute, assclown, calm down.”
“That joke gets less and less funny every time you fuck my sister.”
It was true. Every time their mutual friend Jay Cannataro threw a garage party (his parents providing the beer), Tommy would invariably get sloppy and hook up with Barry’s sister.
Tommy took a deep breath through his nose. The snow had not dampened the smell of late October. It was surreal to have the scent of dead leaves mingling with the snot brought on by a runny nose.
A layer of snow surrounded the bottom carton of eggs. It threatened to envelop the whole bag by the time Tommy’s brother showed up twenty minutes later. By that time the boys had given up waiting outside and decided to go raid Tommy’s bathroom for a few rolls of toilet paper. TPing front lawns was a bit too juvenile—they had graduated to eggs and shaving cream—but Tommy wouldn’t tell if Barry didn’t.
By the time they were done inside, the sun had begun to disappear behind the trees and houses, the snowfall had noticeably increased, and Tommy’s brother was sitting inside the Thunderbird, drinking out of a paper bag.
It was time to raise hell.
George was getting less trick-or-treaters than usual. It was disheartening but afforded him more time for pumpkin-carving.
Usually he would carve a funny face or at least a scary face with a smile, but this year was different. With “The Monster Mash” fading into “The Blob” on the radio, George put the final touches on his jack-o’-lantern and finally realized how grisly it was. It must have been the weather or his unhappiness with his lack of decorations. Somehow he had carved a pumpkin that was probably going to give him nightmares, never mind the kids.
He shrugged and dropped a small candle inside its hollowed-out innards. He grabbed a long stove match from above the kitchen sink and walked, squash in both hands, to the porch.
Outside, the snow had gotten worse and the sun had almost completely set. The reflective white blanket on the rooftops and street amplified what light was left, granting an eerily crisp level of visibility. The walkway leading to the front door had a few little footprints in it, but there hadn’t been a visitor in almost a half hour, so the holes were already filled with snow.
George struck the match and lit the jack-o’-lantern. Its cruel face cast long, pointed shadows onto the steps and the snow-covered lawn below.
Up the sidewalk there approached a lone trick-or-treater, a young boy in a cheap vinyl skeleton costume, wearing snow pants and boots. He looked ridiculous, shooting a little puffs of steam out from under his mask as he walked. George waved to the boy, put up his finger to motion “one second,” and ducked inside for his candy bowl.
The child dragged a soggy pillowcase behind him up the walkway. His scrunched, deliberate body language signified defiance to the weather but did not indicate that he was having any fun.
“Trickrtreat,” the kid grunted. George gave him two handfuls of miniature Three Musketeers, Snickers, and Crunch bars and sent him on his way. He got the feeling that there would not be many more children and went back inside for his final ritual of the night: to sit in front of the TV until he fell asleep.
“Look at some of these houses, these people like this holiday a little too much if you ask me. And what’s with all those big inflatable light-up pieces of shit? Lazy fuckers buy a couple of those and call it quits.” Tommy’s brother was ranting while keeping the car mostly in its own lane. “Islanders: they’re all sheep.” The brothers, Barry, and all of their friends had all been born and raised on the Island, but would never admit it.
“I like it, it shows a respect for tradition,” Tommy said, while spraying a glob of shaving cream into his hand. “I do agree about those blow-up things though. Ugly as fuck. Slow down and pull over.” He pointed to a car parked on the street.
The Thunderbird slowed and Tommy flung the load of shaving cream onto the hood of the parked car.
“Nice.” Barry gave a thumbs-up from the back seat and picked up the top carton of eggs from the ice-and-slush-encrusted bag. “Where are we using these?”
“Houses with no respect. Houses with no decorations.” Tommy threw up some horns and pointed forward. “Onward, my brother!” The engine revved and the Thunderbird hurtled through the empty icy streets into the night.
George lowered himself into his favorite chair, which he had moved to the window for a better view of any possible late trick-or-treaters. Outside,
the light from the jack-o’-lantern was burning out fast in the wind and snow.
Flicking on the TV, George was struck with a pang of sadness and spoke aloud softly. “Another one down, Muriel. Uneventful, but maybe memorable because of this garbage.” He waved his hand toward the window, motioning to the calm snow-filled streets. “Next year maybe I’ll get some of the local kids to help me put up all my crap.”
A loud plow drove by and jogged him out of his moment of sentimentality. Sighing, he focused on the TV commercials.
When the advertisements were over, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the local station was playing old movies with introductions from Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. She may not have been funny, and she may have stolen her shtick from a bunch of horror hosts before her, but she used to be George’s favorite on account of her abundant cleavage.
He ogled Elvira’s chest and remembered the days a few decades ago when her face and breasts were all over during the Halloween season. She was on pinball machines, Pepsi commercials, beer advertisements. Meditating on these days and her bust, George began to feel the kind of warmness he’d been missing for a long time. His jeans seemed to get smaller and his smile grew wider.
Maybe this year wasn’t a complete wash, he thought, and grinned. Muriel, I wish you were here.
Then something hard broke through the window next to him, striking him in the temple with a crack and a thud. The blow carried enough force to knock him from his chair to motionless on the floor.
“These eggs are fucking frozen solid,” Barry said. “Jesus Christ! I think you broke that window.”
“Eh, screw ’em. If you can’t decorate at least a little, you have to face the consequences.” Tommy laughed and rolled up the passenger-side window, not wanting to let their body heat escape.
On the porch, the jack-o’-lantern’s candle had blown out. The pumpkin was rendered invisible by the waves of windblown snow washing against it in the cold autumn night.
Bringing Down the Giants
The creature before him was a heavy mass of teeth, fur, and anger. For the first time in his life, Brut knew that he’d made a mistake and had taken on quarry too big to fell on his own.
The boys had come along on this hunt, though, and he had been trying to show off for them. He’d commanded them to keep their distance and watch. He explained to them, in their own language, that it would be dangerous for them to help him and even more dangerous to disobey him.
Lank and gray, the creature rose up on its hind feet and showed Brut its white underbelly. It stood almost double Brut’s height. Brut could feel his children’s eyes on him, knew that he was being watched, marveled at, feared for. This was the moment when the kill must come, or it would not come at all.
Brut lashed out with his spear, but the animal was too tall and too fast. It caught him by the shoulder, the rough pads of its fingers tugging against Brut’s long hair while four claws, each the length of Brut’s outstretched hand, buried themselves into the meat of his back. Brut let one hand off his weapon and released a quick punch to the creature’s snout.
Chittering low in its throat, the white-gray shape dragged Brut off his feet and buried its long front teeth in his forearm. The pain was there in a quick burst and then gone, his senses overloaded by having his arm completely pierced by the enormous incisors. He listened as the bones of his arm snapped.
In the distance, he could hear his boys cry out. They were well behaved and honor-bound, though, and would not approach. That they were safe was a small consolation to Brut as he faced death.
With the last of his strength he buried the spear in the creature’s neck, its long yellow teeth parting from his flesh to let loose a cry of anguish.
With their blood mingling and the light fading in the forest around them, Brut wanted to cry out for his boys to stay away, that even mortally wounded the animal was still dangerous, but his wounds were too deep, his body too weak.
The last thing Brut observed in this world was a tremor spreading across the forest floor, shaking his body, the dying beast twitching beside him. Then, a shadow swept over him, belonging to a giant big enough to block out the sun.
The woods behind Susan’s new house were amazing. Moving so far away from the city had been a little scary and she’d miss all of her friends at Brookline Elementary, but maybe exploring these woods had the power to make it better.
Her mother had torn a white trash bag into two long strips and tied them around branches a few yards apart, making an invisible fence that ran through the forest. She wasn’t supposed to go beyond the two white flags. Susan toed this line and then looked back. It was still easy to see the second-floor windows of the new house, so just a little further couldn’t hurt.
She took a tentative step and then another, her disobedience getting easier with every stride, until she wasn’t even thinking about what her mother would think or do to punish her—if she’d do anything. Daddy had been the disciplinarian, but Daddy didn’t live with them in the new house.
The woods were so much different than the park Susan was used to. The ground was uneven with roots and brush, and the trees were close enough together that she could only see swatches of the blue sky above.
She could sense that life was all around her, even though most of it seemed to be hiding. She lifted up bits of wood and squealed with delight as bugs and grubs scurried away from the light. Susan whirled toward every snapped twig, hoping to see a deer like Bambi, but always disappointed when she couldn’t spot the source of the sound.
Susan hadn’t encountered anything larger than a sparrow before she came upon the squirrel.
The poor thing was dead, but that wasn’t the worst part. Susan looked at the body, at the blood, and frowned. Someone had stabbed the animal in the neck and left it here to die. Back home in Boston, the boys in the neighborhood had talked about doing similar things, but she’d never actually seen them set a cat on fire or catch a squirrel in a rattrap.
Real death was new and scary.
Susan started to cry as she imagined bigger boys hanging out in her secret woods. The place didn’t feel special anymore, she hadn’t found it first.
A thin trail of blood led away from the squirrel, and Susan followed it with her eyes. Under the shade of a nearby fern, she found the murder weapon.
It was the ugliest action figure she’d ever seen.
The small caveman monster was outfitted with a tiny cloth sash and a small, sharp stick and covered in a soft layer of brown fur. Susan didn’t know what TV show the character was from.
She picked him up and, unlike most action figures, found that he was soft to the touch, his arms and legs slumping against her fingers. The monster was made not of rigid plastic but of some kind of rubber.
“Why did you kill Mr. Squirrel?” Susan asked, knowing full well that the toy had been the instrument of the animal’s destruction, not the murderer.
There was more rustling nearby, and Susan scanned the bushes for signs of life. Nothing. Clouds must have begun to move in, because the woods seemed to darken, like blinds closing on the outside world. Suddenly Susan did not feel welcome in the woods, or alone. The boys who had killed that squirrel were watching her, she knew it.
“You’re all bullies and I’m telling,” she screamed in the direction of the noises. There was no reply. She held up the caveman, his head lolling as she did.
“I’m taking this with me,” she said. “You want him back, you’re going to have to talk to my mom.”
She stomped off, hoping that she was headed in the right direction. She couldn’t see her house from here.
The boys watched, tears dribbling down their faces and drenching the fur under their eyes. Father was dead. His body had been taken. They could not return home without him. Or without their revenge.
Roy found the little girl in the woods at the back of the house, about fifteen minutes after sunset. She’d been lost and scared, screaming for her mother.
Truth be told, he liked the woman. Julia was sad, recently divorced, and kind of hot. Six thirty was usually the latest he’d stay on a job, but this was a special case. He wasn’t being paid overtime, but there was nothing to go home to anyway.
It was getting dark by the time he turned on the faucet and watched the water glide down the drain. Then he flipped on the disposal. There was no more loud gurgling sound. Fixed. At the same time, the mother was unscrewing the top of a flashlight and lining up the positives and negatives on a set of new batteries, preparing to go look for her little girl in the woods that backed up against the house.
“She won’t answer me,” Julia said. “I have to go look for her.”
There was a forced calmness in her voice, but Roy could see that the lady was close to cracking up—her kid playing in the woods was now one more stressor to add to the pile. There was a self-assuredness to her motions, but Roy could see that she was asking for help.
“I’ve got a bigger one than that in the van. One sec and I’ll go get it,” Roy said.
He’d only caught a glimpse of little Susan over the last couple of days as he touched up the circuitry and laid stripping in the Crests’ new home. The girl had been cute and friendly. Like her mother.