The Stroke of Midnight: A Supernatural New Year's Anthology
Page 17
"You're keeping thin, sweetie," Aunt Crystal shouted over the music as she pat his abdomen. "That's good."
Aunt Margery, short and wide, took Crystal's hand to pull her back into the crowded kitchen. She glanced back at Kyle and sang out, "Anita's here, you know."
Kyle smiled, sighed, and began looking for his sister among the crush of relatives. Loud gossip spoken through food-filled mouths. Laughter and friendly arguments. Double cheek kisses and backslaps. He knew he was supposed to greet certain people in a specific order, starting with Grandpa, but at that moment he was preoccupied by visions of neighbors seeing a third story atop a house that has had zero construction taking place.
"Kyle, my love," Aunt Kim said as he passed her in the hall, a hint of offense that he appeared intent on zipping by her with only a polite smile and nod. Visiting from Vermont, she was actually a cousin, but being fifteen years older, she'd always been "aunt." He leaned in for the hug and she rubbed his unshaven cheek. "Look at you so manly with all your facial hair!"
"Ha, yeah, I'm thirty-one. Good to see you. Hey, have you seen Jess?"
His phone vibrated in his jeans and he pulled it out. A new text message from Jess read "Where R U?"
"I think she's guarding your room downstairs. That was very clever of you to have it locked up, sweetie. I'm stuck with Vilja and her hundred-year-old boyfriend in the study."
He patted her shoulder. "Sorry. Hey, I'll see you in a little bit, okay?"
She waved him off and continued on toward the main room. Kyle turned the corner and rushed down the cramped stairway to the basement in-law just as another text message appeared on his phone screen: "I'm downstairs. Hurry up."
He called, "Jess?"
She was sitting on an overturned bucket in front of the padlocked door. She wore a colorful, flowy top, and a skirt over black leggings, and popped up as soon as she saw him, her freshly-curled black hair bouncing as she bounded to him.
"There you are, fucker! Why'd you take so long?" She hugged him tight and sniffed his chest. "You smell like starch and old lady perfume. You bring Nishiyo?"
He gently pushed her away by the shoulders and held her there. "I got held up. Traffic … this homeless guy outside the warehouse … I'll tell you later. And no, she didn't come. Like you and Jimmy, I have no urgency to let that cat out of the bag. Listen, um, do you know about the house?"
She frowned at his collar and undershirt, straightening them as she replied, "Dad's house? What about it? I've been down here for the past hour. Uncle Isaac was looking for bolt cutters in the garage. He says he refuses to share a bathroom."
"Well, Isaac or somebody took matters into their own hands. There's a third story on the house."
"What do you mean a third story? On this house? Like on top of the roof?"
He nodded wide-eyed as he saw the full realization sinking into his sister's face. He took her gently by the arm back up the stairs.
A baffled Jess went on, "Wait, but what about the roof? Did someone take the roof off or something?"
"I don't know. Let's see."
They rounded the corner and marched the short distance down the hall to the second floor stairs, narrowly avoiding two little nieces scurrying past.
Jess followed him up to the next floor. "I can't believe this. What if the neighbors see?"
"I think we're on the same page," he said as they stepped onto a seemingly normal second floor, doors stretching out from the landing in both directions. "Let's check the attic."
They walked to the far end of the hall where the hideaway ladder was already pulled down to the floor, light shining down through the small rectangular opening in the ceiling. Kyle climbed up first, and then helped Jess onto the carpeted attic floor. They both stood and gawked at the sight. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to a section of the roof, punching a hole large enough to fit a refrigerator. The tool leaned against the slanted roof, a pile of powdery debris beneath it. A solid block of plastic steps sat below the hole, two matching suitcases standing beside it.
"Unbelievable." Jess darted to the steps and climbed up. "Who do you think did it?" Her top half disappeared into the hole.
"Watch out, let me see."
Jess cautiously stepped onto the roof and out of sight.
Kyle followed after her. "Whoever it was wasn't alone."
They peered around the new third level. A short hardwood-floored hall lead from the roof hole to four different doors. Everything appeared finished: electricity, carpet, paint, doorknobs that matched the rest of the house. "This is at least three different people, and I guarantee you Uncle Frank is one of them. Isaac, too, and maybe Jack."
One of the new doors swung open and someone stepped out. It was Aunt Mary, Jack's wife, in a tight-fitting evening dress.
"Well hello, my dears," she sang, her eyes squinty and smile toothy. "Would you be wonderful and grab my luggage from down there? My shoes are in your uncle's suitcase."
Kyle didn't want to be disrespectful to his mother's sister, but he would not be grabbing her luggage. He needed to talk to his parents, and fast.
* * *
On Treasure Island, Virgil "Taz" Murtaugh stood inside a green port 'o' potty, munching on still-warm turkey while he watched the big New Year's fireworks show through thin vent slits. He couldn't recall exactly how he'd gotten here.
He thought that he'd been robbing some rich prick with one of those big, boxy Mercedes SUV's. Originally, he simply planned to bust into one of the big warehouses to spend the chilly night in warmth, but when he saw the guy come out of the building, he'd seen dollar signs, and hid in the bushes until the right moment. While the dude changed his clothes into some fancy shit, right out there where everyone could see—like "look at me, I go to the gym and I'm off to some rich people party with champagne served in elephant tusks and caviar you eat off naked chicks' tits"—Taz had grabbed a metal rod from the ground and snuck up behind the guy. Next thing he knows, he's locked in a shitter with no shit in it, just a little bit of that blue stuff down in the tank, and a big platter with a whole steaming turkey is sitting on the toilet seat, bottles of water are on the floor, and a pile of folded blankets lying beside him. He'd thought it was a drug-borne dream.
After spending a good ten minutes screaming and yelling and banging on the door, threatening the guy, saying he better let him out, Taz realized the dude was long gone. There was no one around, and probably wouldn't be until morning.
Now, who-knew-how-many hours later, the big fireworks show over the San Francisco Bay had started, and the turkey was real good. As the booms and crackles echoed off the buildings behind him, Taz realized he must have stolen the turkey and blankets—maybe some lady put it in the window to cool, like how they did pie in old movies—before he holed himself up in the shitter, somehow getting stuck. Maybe he'd scored a fix that day, after all—forgot patches of time how he sometimes did. Whatever happened, the turkey was damn good, he was warm, and the fireworks looked real nice. Besides, he'd slept in worse places than a shitless shitter.
THREE
When the Super Nintendo Entertainment System came out in 1991, eight-year-old Kyle was hesitant to verbalize his interest. With his father, these sorts of things could go either way. They had an old Atari 2600 in the house, but hadn't been allowed to get the original Nintendo console when it was released. It had been Dad-banned. Oftentimes, they were forced to skip a generation, as in the case of cassette tapes. The family's music media had jumped from 8-track to compact discs, and whatever format followed the CD was surely doomed (and hopefully that format wouldn't last too long before the next generation of music media). This fact—that of generation-hopping—offered Kyle a glimmer of hope for finally joining all of his friends in the now-Super worlds of Mario, Zelda, Metroid, and maybe even Mortal Kombat.
The release day came and passed, and Kyle's friends brought with them to school their individual tales of the greatest enjoyment eight-year-olds can experience. They shared tips and tricks for passing l
evels, mocked each other ("You haven't passed the Tubular level? Psshhh …"), and appeared to be living generally happier, more fulfilled and meaningful lives.
Over the following summer, Kyle's hopes only diminished.
Even Kyle simply watching TV seemed to annoy his father. "Go play outside! Go swimming! Why do we have a pool if no one uses it?"
Kyle had quietly mentioned his desire for an SNES system to his mother, but she had said, "Let's see what your father does. I'm sure he knows about it, and maybe it will be for your birthday or Christmas. You know how he likes to surprise you."
One night, months after the SNES was released for the rest of the world, Kyle was asleep in his bed, dreaming of the day his father would surprise him. "Why don't you go look in the garage?" or "What was that thing you wanted again? Nintendo? You mean like this one here?" But his dreams enjoyed torturing him, and he could never actually touch the box or see himself playing a game. The controller was always just … out … of … reach, the floor between him and the glorious games forever stretching as he walked in place, as if on a treadmill. In a bout of dream frustration, he woke up before sunrise. The room was cold, as usual. He rubbed his eyes and pulled his blankets up to his neck, rolling onto his side.
And what might that be on the carpet, glowing before the nightlight plugged into the wall outlet? He knew that shiny black box, the red lines and lettering. It was a brand new, fully sealed Super Nintendo. But sadly, it was clearly still just a dream. If he got up to go touch it, it would laugh at him and slide away or noisily deflate like a loosed balloon.
It didn't feel like a dream, though. Everything in his room appeared far too normal, down to his chilly toes poking out beneath his sheet.
After a few minutes of staring, blinking, and head shaking, Kyle decided to get out of bed and attempt a touch. He strode across the cushy carpet and leaned over, running his fingers across the clear tape along the black cardboard seam. It was real! Dad had finally done it! Once again, he loved his father.
He wanted to open it right then and there, but he wouldn't be able to hook it up, and Dad always liked to do installation-type activities. Kyle would need to pull out all the stops on the "thank you" for this one. What time was it? Not even 6:00am yet. He pulled his comforter off his bed, wrapped it around himself, and sat huddled over the box, reading and re-reading each word on every side.
At some point, he dozed off, awakening in a sunlit room, his face squished against the top of the Super Nintendo box, arms curled around it like a favorite stuffed animal. He smelled coffee.
Kyle's bare feet slip-slapped on the cold hardwood floor as he dashed down the hall and into the kitchen. Dad sipped coffee from a mug at the breakfast table as his mother sliced an orange on the counter. Kyle rushed to his father and hugged him tight.
"Thank you thank you thank you Daddy you're the best dad ever and I love you and not just 'cause of this 'cause I always love you and thank you thank you so much …"
Dad laughed, taken aback, as Mom made a curious "aww" face.
"What'd you do, Serg?" She asked.
"Not sure," he said, and looked in Kyle's eyes with a smirk. "Remind me, Kyle. What'd I do to deserve this glorious showering of love?"
"The Nintendo! Thank you thank you thank you, can we set it up right now, or maybe today, maybe early today, or any time you have time, I guess?"
But Dad's expression wasn't right. He shot a look to Mom. "You?"
Uh-oh.
Kyle spun round to see his mother's response. She put a hand on her chest and shook her head, wide-eyed.
"Where is this?" Dad demanded, and Kyle began deflating. He led his father to his room and pointed to the beautiful box beside his crumpled blanket. Dad looked at it for a long time, silent, and then scanned around the whole room.
"Tell me the truth," he said. "Where'd this come from?"
Fighting tears, Kyle shook his head. "It was just hear when I woke up. I thought … you really didn't—?"
"No. Come with me." His father scooped up the box, feeling the weight, and took Kyle by the wrist back to the kitchen.
For thirty minutes or more Dad asked him questions. "Did you take money? Buy this somewhere? Tell the truth."
"He's telling the truth, Serg," Mom said several times. "Just look at his face."
Kyle cried as his father made him watch the still-sealed box plunk down into the trashcan out back.
Later that night, when he was supposed to be asleep, Kyle sneaked down the hall, following his parents' voices to the living room. On the floor he saw the opened Nintendo box, Styrofoam, papers, and wires. Dad was behind the TV, only his legs visible.
"It's all too perfect," Dad said. "But no way it would actually work," as if trying to convince himself of something.
Single eye peeking from the hall, a confounded Kyle watched as his Dad inserted a cartridge into the Nintendo console and turned it on. The TV lit up with "Nintendo Presents," the playful theme music began, and the colorful Super Mario World start screen appeared. Dad looked at Mom with a troubled expression.
"Whatever the explanation for this," he said. "It's a problem."
* * *
The Nintendo was not the last object to mysteriously show up in Kyle's room. There were toys that he'd find—action figures he didn't remember receiving, new books on his bookshelf, a toy submarine in the bathtub. Often dismissive, as if he'd simply forgotten where the items came from, Kyle always kept these new arrivals to himself. However, when an adorable little collie puppy emerged from his closet one morning, Kyle knew he had to tell his parents. The puppy was given away to family friends, the issue handled without interrogation or accusations, only uneasy looks shared between his parents. A month later, still on summer break from school, Kyle almost died.
Dreaming of swimming underwater in the pool, Kyle woke up with a start. He'd somehow sleepwalked outside to the pool and fallen in. Cold and in the dark, Kyle found himself completely submerged and tangled in his blankets. He twisted himself around, flailed his arms in search of the surface, found his pillow and the pool wall. Apparently, he'd dragged all of his linens outside with him. He opened his eyes just in time to see a small light spark and burn out a short distance away. Lungs burning and unable to hold his breath anymore, he kicked off of the pool wall, attempting to surface. But he ran into his ceiling. Somehow his entire room had slipped into the pool.
It made no sense, but grownups were always talking about the big earthquake that was going to hit the Bay Area any time now. That must have been it: an earthquake. Floating near his ceiling, Kyle realized he was going to die, and closed his eyes, snorting involuntarily as he panicked and cried. Water burned into his nose and down the back of his throat. He coughed bubbles and then sucked in more water.
But something happened and the pool began to rapidly drain. Maybe it was a giant crack in the bottom, opened up by the big earthquake! Kyle suddenly found himself rushing forward, flowing with an irresistible torrent of water. His hip slammed into something, his body snaked sharply left, and he found himself finally able to breathe. He heaved and gagged and vomited water as his hands and knees found solid ground. Like a never-ending ocean wave, water continued to push him from behind, small objects striking the back of his head as they passed, until finally, the water stopped and he opened his eyes.
He was in the house—the hall—several doors down from his bedroom. Had the whole house slid into the pool? He didn't know, and he was still choking, unsure if everything was now going to be okay. What if more water came?
"Kyle?" his father shouted as he appeared at the end of the hall, his face agape with terror, and Mom right behind. Then the power went out and they were in the dark.
* * *
After the "Flood Doctors" workers left, the house was cold and smelled bad. The heater had to be left on and all the windows kept open. Most of the water had drained into the basement and "sunken" living room where all of the furniture had now been removed, the carpet all torn out.
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br /> Upstairs in his parents' room, Kyle sat on his mother's little vanity stool facing Mom and Dad seated at the edge of their bed. Kyle played with the plastic wristband the nurse had put on him at the hospital.
"We have to have a talk," Dad said, and inhaled a deep breath.
"I was just sleeping," Kyle said. "I didn't do anything!"
Mom tilted her head and looked at him with kind eyes. "Yes you did, honey. But you're not in trouble. It wasn't your fault."
"You're coming with me to the factory tomorrow," Dad said. "It's time you learned all about what your family does."
"We're makers," Kyle said.
Dad nodded. "Yes. But do you understand what that means? How we make things?" Kyle shrugged. He didn't want to disappoint his father by saying he did not actually understand. "Well, do you know what sorts of things we make?"
"Furniture and stuff. Desks? Tables?" Kyle wasn't sure what answer Dad sought.
Dad leaned forward, put his elbows onto his knees, and folded his hands before him. "Tables? Like dinner tables?"
Kyle began to nod when suddenly his father disappeared from view. Kyle hadn't even blinked—one second there was eight feet of empty space between he and his parents, and the next, an ornate, dark wood dinner table with carved claw feet.
Dad went on as if nothing had happened. "Or were you thinking more of a foldaway table?"
On top of the dinner table appeared a thin wooden table with foldable metal legs.
Kyle stood and saw his father's face framed by the two tables. He tried to speak, but all he could think was "how?" and he couldn't quite form the word with his mouth.
"You couldn't make something smaller?" Mom scolded. "What are we going to do with those?"