The Other Side

by Daniel Willcocks

  His smile faded when he glanced at her car. “Did you have to bring him?” he asked. “Does he have to follow you everywhere? Does he follow you into the bathroom?”

  “We’re probably going to get married,” she said. “Get used to it.”

  “He’s living in my house. He doesn’t need to come here and gawk at my crummy little apartment too.”

  “Greg doesn’t live with me,” Denise said. “Not yet.”

  “No, he just sleeps there seven nights a week. Tommy tells me everything. He can even hear you fucking—you better be more careful with the grunts and moans.”

  “I think your time’s up,” she said.

  Carey looked at his watch and said, “No, I’ve got three more minutes. Three more minutes to look at that bastard sitting in your car. You know what he is? He’s a big square box with nothing inside.”

  “You don’t even know him,” she said.

  “Yeah, I do. He eats Cheerios every morning and his favorite dinner is hamburgers with Velveeta cheese. He thinks sushi’s for sissies and David Lynch movies are for lunatics. Mr. Squarebox. Tommy hates him, you know.”

  “Tommy hates him because you tell him to,” she said. “Now Tommy’s starting to hate me too.”

  “Tommy hates him because he knows there’s only one man for him and there’s only one man for you, and you know that, too. Someday we’re going to be together again, babe, just the three of us.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

  “You know we’re joined at the hip,” he said. “We got the link, babe. All those acid trips we did together, we learned to read each other’s minds. Tell me something, can Mr. Squarebox read your mind and know what you really want? I’ll bet he can’t even read a book unless it has a lot of pictures.”

  “Your time’s up,” Denise said. She opened the door and yelled, “Come on, Tommy, we’re leaving.”

  Carey grabbed her arm and pulled her close. “You know I’m right, babe,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re like twins. We’ve got our special memories and we’ve got our secret places. We’ve got the link.”

  Greg started honking, and Tommy came down the stairs, saying, “All right, all right, I’m coming,” but Denise could see that he didn’t want to.

  Tommy sulked in the back seat without speaking and, when they got home, he ran up to his room. The next evening, he played with his food without eating it. When he started putting his French fries in his milk glass, Denise yelled, “Stop that!” But he kept doing it, and the milk overflowed onto the table.

  “If you’re not going to eat, go to your room,” she said, and he did.

  The next night he was hungry enough to behave at the table, though he wouldn’t speak except to grunt whenever Denise asked him a question. After dinner, she and Greg sat on the sofa watching his favorite show, a stupid sitcom. He wanted to cuddle and kiss, but she wasn’t in the mood. She was disentangling herself from his embrace when she saw Tommy standing there staring at them with a hateful expression.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “Why are you making that ugly face?”

  “’Cause this show sucks,” he said. It was probably the first full sentence he’d said to her since leaving his father’s apartment.

  “Okay, put something else on,” she said.

  Tommy aimed the remote control at her and Greg and started pushing the buttons. “The same stupid show’s on every channel,” he said. He threw the control on the floor and ran up to his room.

  Denise felt like crying but didn’t. Greg held her and said, “It’s okay, Denny. He’s a good kid, he just acts weird after he sees his father. We’ll get this worked out.”

  Greg was a nice man, even if he was a square box, and pretty soon his soft words and hard muscles made her feel better. He led her upstairs, but when they got in bed, she rolled away from him and clutched her pillow.

  “What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

  “Tommy can hear us when we have sex,” she said. “That’s what Carey told me. He’s probably in his room listening right now.”

  The week went downhill from there, Tommy growing more sullen each day and Greg acting hurt because Denise wouldn’t have sex with him. Saturday, he was sitting in the dining room staring at his laptop, and she knew he was either reading sports news or gawking at photos of hot cheerleaders in skimpy outfits, since that’s what he did every Saturday morning. Maybe Carey’s right, she thought—maybe Greg really is a square box with nothing inside.

  “Where are those keys to the cabin?” she asked. “I can’t find them in the kitchen drawer.”

  “I moved them to that drawer in the bookcase,” he said without looking up, and she felt another stab of annoyance. It was her house—what right did he have moving things without telling her?

  “What do you want with them?” he asked. “Are we going to the lake today?”

  “Carey is. He called and said he lost his key.”

  Greg looked up from his screen and frowned. “I don’t like him using our cabin,” he said. “He probably takes drugs there.”

  “What do you mean our cabin? If it belonged to me it wouldn’t be ours, it would be mine, but, in fact, it isn’t mine, it’s Carey’s. It’s one of the few things he got in the settlement. He just lets us use it as a courtesy. I’m sure I’ve told you that.”

  “Oh.” Greg sipped his coffee and frowned some more. “Well then, I think we should buy our own cabin. I don’t like having Carey in our lives like this, all the time Carey wanting this and Carey wanting that.”

  “I have a great idea,” she said. “You’re paying money for a nice apartment, but you never use it. Why don’t you go spend your day there and leave me the fuck alone. You can gawk at your bimbo cheerleaders there just as well as here.”

  Greg’s frown crumpled into something more painful, but he shut his laptop without speaking and went to the bathroom to collect his shaving gear. Denise stood with her arms crossed, already regretting her temper tantrum, but at the same time looking forward to some time to herself. But, not really to herself, since Tommy would still be around.

  As soon as Greg’s car pulled out of the driveway, she called Carey. “Are you planning to take drugs at the cabin?” she asked.

  “I told you, I’m clean. I’ve been clean for twelve months now.”

  “Do you swear that on a Bible or whatever else you happen to believe in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to take Tommy with you?”

  His “yes”was quiet, but she could hear joy ringing in it like faint bells. According to the custody agreement, he was allowed to have Tommy only one weekend per month, and this was the first time she’d given him an extra weekend.

  “I’ll swing by in an hour,” he said. “Make sure he packs his fishing gear, a warm blanket, a flashlight, and a good book. We’ll read it together around the fireplace tonight.”

  As she helped Tommy pack, his excitement was almost more painful to her than his usual resentment. Why didn’t he love her the way he loved his father? Every day he looked more like Carey, same angel-blue eyes, same delicate face, same long, golden hair, and every day he seemed less like her own child.

  He was looking through his Harry Potter collection, trying to decide which volume to pack, when she heard Carey’s old, red Volkswagen chugging into the driveway. She hurried downstairs and met him in the yard, not wanting him to come in.

  He stood there, staring at the house. “I always hated that vinyl siding, I wanted wood,” he said. “But I like the color. The slate blue was your idea, remember? I wanted something darker.”

  He stepped past the corner of the attached garage and stared at the woods behind it. The old farmhouse was half-hidden back there in the autumn trees, its siding black with rot and the collapsing slate roof bowed in the center like the back of a crippled nag. It was already falling into ruin when they bought the land and built the new house, but Carey had turned it into his music and painting studio. He always liked ruins
.

  “I see my old friend still stands,” he said. “I’m surprised Mr. Squarebox hasn’t torn it down yet.”

  “It’s not his to tear down.”

  “No, it will always be ours, won’t it? That’s one of our special places, the place where our son was conceived.” He smiled his sweet smile and said, “Maybe we’ll be there again someday, making love with our tape recorder on.”

  “Maybe in your dreams.”

  “Why don’t you leave Mr. Squarebox to his Cheerios and come camping with us?” he said. “Just Tommy and me and babe makes three.”

  She started to say, “You’re such an asshole,” but Tommy came running out of the house with his fishing rod and duffle bag, and Carey yelled, “There’s my boy!”

  She had gotten so used to having Greg and Tommy around that she wasn’t sure what to do by herself. She mopped the kitchen, stared at her computer for a while, watched some TV and ate a sandwich. She regretted snapping at Greg. He was a kind man, even if he was square. She wanted to marry him so she could forget about Carey’s ruined smile, but there was an angry boy standing between them.

  The sun was going down when she called her friend, Ginger. “Got any plans tonight?” she asked.

  “Nope. Let’s go out and boogie. If you get too fucked up to drive, you can spend the night here.”

  Ginger’s house was just ten miles away, but it was in a foreign world because it was in the city. Buying land in the country had been Carey’s idea and, at first, Denise had hated the isolation. Then, the silence started to sound good, and she gave up a better job in town to keep accounts for a tractor dealership not far from the house. Now, country silence was in her blood, and she couldn’t imagine living in the city again. She wondered how Carey could stand it.

  He hates cities even more than I do, she thought as she parked in front of Ginger’s little two-story house. He lives in a place he hates and makes his living playing the kind of music he hates. It’s like he’s punishing himself.

  No, it’s like I’m punishing him. I took it all away from him.

  As she rang Ginger’s doorbell, she glimpsed Carey’s pale face for a moment in the porch light and saw the sadness in his smile. A sharp, damp breeze blew up her coat and made her shiver.

  “You look all ragged,” Ginger said. “What’s wrong, you and Greg been fighting?”

  “No, it’s more like me and Tommy,” Denise said. “He’s been a real pain in the butt. He doesn’t like Greg very much.”

  “Kids,” Ginger said. “Only time I have a life is when mine are with their dad. Want some reefer?”

  The marijuana was powerful and, after a couple hits, Denise began to feel paranoid. She thought she heard Carey’s voice, but it was just a thin ambulance siren receding in the distance. Then she heard his voice again. “We’ve got our secret places,” he seemed to be saying. “We’ve got the link.”

  “What’s wrong, Denny?” Ginger asked.

  “Nothing. This dope’s too strong for me.”

  “Yeah, it’s some righteous shit okay. Wanna do a couple lines to clear your head?”

  Denise snorted some coke through a straw, and her head rang like a tuning fork. She heard the siren again, somewhere in the distance, but coming closer.

  “My nerves are shot,” she said. “I let Tommy go camping with Carey, and now I’m not sure it was a good idea.”

  “Nothing involving that asshole is a good idea, in my opinion,” Ginger said. “Madam Alex says he’s going to cause some bad trouble pretty soon.” She relit the joint and took a deep hit.

  “Who’s Madam Alex?”

  “You know, that spiritualist medium I’ve been seeing. She’s the real thing, Denny, you have to meet her.”

  “She said something about Carey?”

  “She said I know some drug addict sicko who’s going to cause some bad trouble pretty soon, and Carey’s the only drug addict sicko I know.”

  “He says he’s quit.”

  “Yep, and the bear says he quit shitting in the woods. He’s not straight and sober like you and me.” Ginger choked on her weed and began to giggle.

  The siren kept coming closer. The ambulance seemed to be prowling all the streets around the house, looking for some sort of misery. The thin wail reminded Denise of one of Carey’s old songs, but she couldn’t remember the words—something about hate and death.

  “You remember one of Carey’s songs that goes, ‘They say you can’t take it with you, but I’m gonna try’?” she asked. “I think it’s on his first album.”

  “I never could stand his music,” Ginger said. “Too morbid. His songs all sound like suicide notes to me.”

  “There’s something about a book and a flashlight,” Denise said. “Something like ‘Better bring a bright flashlight, ’cause it’s dark down below.’ You remember that line?”

  “Nope,” Ginger said. “You’re getting weird, Denny. Maybe you need another hit.”

  “Flashlight, blanket, better pack a novel,” Denise said. “That’s what he wanted Tommy to pack today, just like in the song. It’s weird.”

  “Nope, you’re weird, Denny. You’re getting freaky on me.”

  “I guess I am. Sorry, Ginger, but it’s been a rough week and I’m not feeling so hot. I think I better go home and go to bed.”

  “Damn, girl, you just got here!”

  On the way home she called Tommy to make sure he was all right. “I caught three great, big bass,” he said. “Daddy cooked them on the hibachi, and he said they was the best fishes he ever ate in his whole life. Now we’re reading Harry Potter out loud.”

  It was obvious Tommy was eager to get off the phone, so she told him she loved him and hung up. When she got home, she drank a glass of wine and went straight to bed. She felt exhausted, maybe because of the weed, and soon she was dreaming she was lying on the bed Carey used to keep in the old house. Carey was lying next to her, flat on his back and deathly still with his eyes open. He was naked and so was she, and she felt uneasy because she didn’t think she was supposed to be lying in bed naked with him. She was trying to explain to him that they shouldn’t be in bed together like this when suddenly, without moving, Carey let out a high-pitched shriek.

  Denise sat up, terrified. It was the same siren she’d heard at Ginger’s house, but it wasn’t somewhere outside—it was right in the room, in fact, right inside her head, and she realized it was Carey’s voice shrieking.

  She grabbed her cellphone from the nightstand and called Tommy’s number, but he didn’t answer. No wonder—it was after two in the morning and he’d be fast asleep—but she let it ring until it went to voicemail and then tried calling again. Carey didn’t own a cellphone because he thought they caused brain tumors—like he’d notice.

  She told herself there was nothing to worry about, but she threw on her clothes anyway, and a few minutes later she was driving fast in the direction of the cabin. October drizzle painted the highway dark, and the siren seemed to be following her car, warbling in the wind like lyrics of an old song she couldn’t quite remember. Headlights glared on her wet windshield, and she saw Carey’s sweet ruined smile in the smear of the wiper blade. Then, she thought she heard his voice.

  Babe, I have seen the other side,

  and I’ve found a secret place where I can hide…

  The drizzle turned into a hard rain as she turned off the highway onto a narrow back road that twisted through the hills. A cold wind was trying to blow her car off the wet asphalt, and soon she had no idea which direction she was going. Some months had passed since she had traveled these roads and, back then, it was Greg who had always done the driving.

  But she felt that Carey was the one steering her wheel now. She slowed down and turned into a muddy gravel lane. Yes, this was the place. She remembered a warm glow of long-ago nights, the smell of marijuana smoke and wood crackling in the fireplace, Carey’s face young and handsome in the flickering firelight and still filled with hope. Those were good days while they lasted. />
  The pitted gravel lane ended at the cabin, and his red Volkswagen was parked beside it. She got out and knocked on the door, but no one answered. She knocked again.

  There was a rustling behind her. She turned and saw Carey emerging from the dark woods. He was stark naked, his long hair plastered against his thin shoulders in the cold rain. He stared at her with a look of utter confusion.

  “Jesus Christ, you asshole!” she yelled. “You’re stoned out of your fucking mind. Where’s Tommy?”

  He staggered closer, still staring at her as if he had no idea who she was or even what country he was in. He stopped a few feet away from her and tottered on his feet like a thin, drenched weed swaying in the wind.

  “Where is he?” she yelled. “He better not be out here in this rain. I swear to God, I’ll press charges.”

  Carey opened his mouth to answer, but only a gargling noise came out. Suddenly, a red gash opened in his throat and blood poured out. He clutched at it with an agonized expression, and blood trickled between his fingers, turning the rain on his naked chest red.

  Denise stepped back, confused and terrified. She opened the cabin door and groped her way inside. The only light came from a few embers in the fireplace, but it was enough for her to dimly make out a flashlight on the table. She switched it on, aimed it around the room, and yelled Tommy’s name several times.

  The front room was a small living room with a tiny kitchenette attached. The doors to the two bedrooms were shut. She opened the nearer one and saw Tommy lying in the bed, but as she moved the flashlight beam to his face, she saw that it wasn’t Tommy after all. It was Carey, covered with blood. His throat was slashed and, though his eyes were wide open, she knew he was dead.