I start thinking about the next challenge. As the third and final hurdle it’ll have to be the ultimate experience in terror. I think long, weighing my options, Eddy looking pale and small against the door.
‘The casket!’ I say, finally. ‘The casket.’
Eddy frowns, his mouth open.
‘Remember the trunk? The tickle trunk?’ In our basement – the cold, concrete cellar, Keith’s rarely used ‘workroom,’ where we store our old winter coats and boots and Keith’s garage jumpsuits, with the boiler standing dusty in the corner and the single bulb swaying on its chain – deep in the far corner is the tickle trunk. The trunk’s four feet long, about two and a half feet deep, and navy blue. I figure the trunk will be an adequate stand-in for the real casket they used to seal up The Warrior last April on TV.
‘Yeah …’ Eddy says, cautiously.
‘Well, that’s gonna be your final test. You get what I’m saying, Warrior?’
He gets it, all right; tears spring to his eyes.
‘Think about it. After you finish, you’ll never be afraid of the basement again. It’ll be bullshit fairy stuff to you. No more nightmares. You’ll be able to go down and bring us up some Cokes or grab a beer for King Shit. Who knows? Maybe Halloween won’t be so fucking scary – maybe you can come trick-or-treating with me this fall.’
‘Can’t we just wrestle?’ he asks.
‘Sorry – but if you wanna beat the ’Taker you’re gonna have to pass the tests. Face your demons. Become a true warrior.’
‘How long?’ he asks.
‘Not that long. Thirty seconds,’ I guess, knowing he won’t make it much longer. ‘And I’ll be there with you the whole time. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s so much, though: spiders, skull masks …’
Somebody drops a bottle outside. Manic laughter ensues.
‘How about this: we do it all at once. You hold the mask in one hand, the jar of spiders in the other. Then we close the lid. You wait thirty seconds and it’s all over, we can have that rematch and you can pin me, fair and square in the middle of the ring.’
He still looks unconvinced.
‘Okay, fine,’ I say, taking this further than I know I should. ‘Final offer. We can let Gorilla out. Just for a bit. We can carry him downstairs.’
Eddy considers this, his face brightening. ‘Can I play with him for an hour?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But if he gets outside we’re dead.’
‘Can I use a chair in our match?’
‘All right.’
‘Can I jump off the dresser?’
‘No, but you can jump off the desk.’
He thinks about it. ‘Okay,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Let’s fucking do it.’
I’m about to tell him to watch his mouth, but I find myself so seriously proud of him for going along with the plan, I decide to let it slide. But then I think, what kind of babysitter, sister and tag-team partner would I be if I did?
So I don’t.
‘Watch your fucking mouth,’ I say, and help him to his feet.
We edge open the door to the spare bedroom, making sure the puppy can’t squeeze his way through. And while Eddy sits and plays with Gorilla, who squeals and licks and runs circles around him, ecstatic for the company, I clean up the two neat piles of shit he’s left on the carpet. We fetch his leash and then slink down to the basement door, making sure the coast is clear before heading downstairs.
Our house is pretty new. It’s a townhouse built about twenty years ago. There are no ancient, creaking floorboards or sealed-off attics, no threat of Indian burial grounds or eighteenth-century hauntings. You’re more likely to find a bucket of kfc bones than a leering human skeleton. Besides, Eddy’s old enough not to be so shiveringly, pathetically afraid. His fear of the basement puts all similar chickenshit bedwetters to shame. His affliction should be studied and monitored, recorded in some scientific journal as the Most Ridiculous Fear Ever. Maybe if Eddy could face his fear of the basement, of the dark and of his dreams, he’d be tougher at school. Baby steps, I think. First conquer your fear of the unknown, of the stuff that can’t actually hurt you, and then move on to the stuff that can: the bullies, the swirlies, the insults. One day Eddy will stand up for himself and move on to singles competition; one day we won’t have to be jobbers.
I make sure the lights are on, that there are no ‘witches’ waiting for Eddy before we head downstairs. Eddy waits on the main floor with the dog on his leash and the spider jar under his arm while I investigate the basement for monsters or murderers. From outside, we can hear a male voice yelling Don’t give me that! Don’t give me that! followed by repulsive peals of laughter. We haven’t seen Mom or Keith in a while, so they’re obviously having a wild time, which is good news for us.
‘It’s ready,’ I say, taking the leash and holding his free hand as we descend the stairs. His palm is warm and clammy in mine.
First, I push past swaying grease-monkey jumpsuits, locate our old box of Halloween costumes and dump the contents onto the floor: silken robes and scarves, clown costumes and party hats and Ninja Turtle masks, fake fangs and a plastic scythe. And, of course, the skull mask, as twisted and grotesque as I remember it. With the mask tucked under my arm, I go after the tickle trunk, clearing a few other boxes off the lid and cracking it open. It’s hot inside; it smells like stale bread and stage makeup. I dust it out for insects or webbing or mould. Then I drag the box across the ground so it’s yawning before Eddy, who stands before it in his Warrior costume.
‘Not backing out, are we?’ I ask, crossing my arms, letting the skull mask dangle.
Eddy looks at the trunk, the Cheez Whiz jar of spiders, the mask hanging limp and ghoulish in my hand. Something turns, clicks, in the clogged machinery of his mind.
‘All right. Now. Now,’ he says.
‘Spoken like a true warrior. Every victory begins by conquering yourself.’
He gazes into the open box. Slowly, cautiously, he steps inside, one foot after the other. He hands me Gorilla’s leash, and I scoop up the shivering dog and hold him against my shoulder. Then Eddy’s crouching, sitting, finally turning on his side and drawing up his knees. It’s a tight fit for Eddy’s excessive flab. After a bit of wriggling, he’s found a comfortable enough position, his arms wrapped around his shins. I hand him the sealed jar of spiders. Then I place the skull mask under his chin, just to see if he’s got the guts. He’s got his eyes closed tight, starts breathing rapidly.
I wait a moment, enjoying this show of bravery, this potential for change. This little kid in a Speedo curled up in an old chest.
‘Rest … in … peace,’ I say, and close the lid.
After a second I hear him puffing, gasping, making this low weird noise from the back of his throat.
‘It’s all right, Warrior,’ I say. ‘You know I’m right here.’ The ceiling light flickers, still wobbling from when I knocked it while dragging the chest. ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself.’
‘Warri-or!’ I hear, muffled, from inside.
‘Here, just so you know I’m close, I’m gonna sit down on the lid. You can hear me tap on the roof, know that I’m just inches away.’ I hear a faint shout of approval. I ease down on top of the trunk, straddling it, my legs banging against its clasps, holding Gorilla in my arms. Then I wrap my knuckles on the top, humming The Ultimate Warrior’s entrance theme. From upstairs and outside, I can hear the foggy sounds of the party, still in full swing: that distant funhouse of mingling conversations, scraping lawn chairs, clinking bottles, the screen door whacking open and shut. I look forward to the quiet that will eventually settle on the house, for the humidity to finally break. Sleeping in on Sunday morning and heading out, not having to look after Eddy or babysit a yapping dog. Driving around in Shannon’s dad’s car, messing around with her video camera. Going to the bonfires, drinking, flirting with the Grade 13s. Not having to talk about wrestling. I’ve earned a break, I figure. I’ve been so goddamne
d good.
It’s been about twenty-five seconds. I start a countdown for the last five. ‘Okay, you ready? Five, four, three, two and … you’re free!’ I yell, sliding off the box and setting Gorilla on the ground. Then I open the lid.
Or … I don’t. Or, I move to open the lid and something stops me. I’m not lifting it right, I think. I spread out my arms and yank from both ends.
Nothing. It’s gotta be the gold latch, I think. It’s been knocked down to the locked position. But since there’s no lock, no key, all I have to do is flip it back. The latch swings up easily, and again I pull on the lid.
Still nothing. I shake the trunk a little. ‘What the fuck,’ I mutter.
‘Lemme out,’ Eddy says.
‘Hold on.’ I walk around the other side of the box and start pulling. I try to jam the tips of my fingers into the crevice beneath the lid. I attack it, yanking, jostling, rubbing my fingers raw in about fifteen seconds.
Eddy’s moaning something, but I’m not paying attention. I stand up and give it some distance, scowling. There’s gotta be something, something I’m miss–
Then it hits me – hits me like The Warrior’s running boot to the gut, and yet just the outline of a memory, from two years back: Keith cutting a promo about using the trunk for certain ‘supplies.’ That he wanted to figure out a way to keep the lid locked, so Eddy or I couldn’t get inside. ‘Man’s gotta have a place to keep his privates,’ was what he said, rubbing that damned cleft in his jaw. Said – and oh god, I think, remembering – that if you put enough weight on the lid, if you pressed down on it harder than normal and waited until you heard a certain click, then it would …
I whistle in amazement. My head, my chest, my stomach – everything starts vibrating. I have to piss, have to drink some water, have to lie down.
‘Please, please,’ Eddy’s moaning. Then, before I can say a word, say something reassuring or comforting, he starts to scream. His first scream is probably involuntary; it’s short and surprised, but the sound of his voice ricocheting back to him in that tiny casket, in the black – it’s all too much. He starts screaming wildly, crazily, hiccupping through sobs, like he’s being tortured, like he’s been buried alive. Gorilla Monsoon begins barking in a frenzy, sprinting around the box and scratching the sides. And I stand there, lips still in the shape of a soundless whistle, bare feet frozen to the concrete floor.
‘Eddy,’ I say, finally able to speak. I don’t think he can hear me. He’s gurgling now. Thinking quickly, I throw the end of Gorilla’s leash beneath the trunk, Eddy screaming harder as I lift the edge. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, and then sprint up the stairs, careful to close the door on my way out.
I pass a man and woman standing close in the kitchen, their arms entwined, who instantly back away from each other as I rush past them. Then I’m through the screen door, bursting out into a circle of lawn chairs surrounding the kiddie pool. The stereo’s blasting the Cars and I wheel around, trying to find a familiar face. Luckily, I spot Keith first, standing close to the door, smoke in hand, sipping a beer. Moths and other winged insects bash against the porch light over his head.
‘Inside,’ I say, breathing hard. ‘You need to come down into the basement.’
‘Why?’ he says, lips glistening from the bottle. Mike, his old work buddy, stands beside him, drunk as hell and clearly amused by my red cheeks and heaving chest.
‘Eddy’s hurt himself downstairs and I need you now,’ I say.
‘Fuck,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Go get your mother.’
The thought of telling Mom delivers another running boot to my gut.
‘No, no, you’ve gotta do it.’
‘What we ask you to do tonight?’ he grunts.
‘I know it’s just – ’
‘Go. Get. Your. Mother.’
King Shit, I think. He smiles at me. And I lose it.
‘Eddy’s locked in your fucking trunk, you turd!’ I yell, really marking out. I can feel the eyes of party guests, but happily the music is so loud that the majority of the gathering hasn’t heard. Mom’s somewhere else, thank god, or else by now I’d have felt an open-hand slap on the back of my head.
Keith’s shoulders drop. He stares at me, and I can tell: he hates me, hates everything about me. Then his look changes a little, like he’s just the tiniest bit afraid.
‘Hold on,’ he says casually to Mike, and walks toward the door. I lead him inside, passing the scarlet-faced couple in the kitchen (now standing a metre apart), and down the stairs. As soon as we’re halfway to the bottom, Keith’s heavy tread behind me, I can hear Eddy’s garbled, muffled shrieks.
‘Je-sus,’ he says. ‘What the fuck have you done to him?’
I stand by the trunk with my arms crossed, and finally feel the stinging threat of tears. I don’t care to explain myself, or what we’ve done. I don’t care how much Keith insults me. I just stand aside and expect him to do something about this, crack the lid, so I can calm Eddy down.
‘Go up and close the door,’ Keith says, squatting down. It’s quiet now, the party sounding a mile away, but Eddy’s screams just ratchet up a notch and set my teeth on edge.
‘I’m gonna get this bitch open and you’re not gonna say jack shit to your mother,’ he says, and then looks at me. ‘Or we’re both dead.’ I moan. Keith fumbles around on his disorganized, paint-and-beer-stained tool bench. He knocks through tape measures and pencils and hammers until he finds a crowbar.
‘Don’t you have a key?’ I ask.
‘It’s safe, somewhere else,’ he says. ‘I’m not riskin’ it. Your mother would sniff us out.’
I realize how drunk he is. Keith gets impatient and bull-headed when’s he’s hammered; likes the feel of heavy tools and taking direct, sloppy action.
First he pitches Gorilla Monsoon away from him, the leash skittering across the floor and the puppy yelping in protest. ‘Stupid dog,’ Keith mutters. ‘What the hell’s he doing out of the spare room?’ Then he goes about tapping at the lid, trying to find a hold for the hooked end of the bar.
‘Eddy!’ he bellows. ‘Make sure your hands are away from the lid!’ Then, without listening for a response, he starts cranking on the crowbar, trying to snap the clasp. It’s a slapdash performance, a stumbling act of bending, crouching and cursing. He’s making a ridiculous racket, too – something he fails to notice in his hammered state. Eventually he throws the crowbar across the room, defeated.
‘Fuck it,’ he says, walking back to his workbench and picking up his electric drill. He’s got the thing plugged in and whirling in a few more minutes, lying on his side against the back of the trunk, shakily fitting the end of the drill bit into the various screws. It’s easier to listen to the drill than to have to bear Eddy’s muffled wails. Gold screws begin to fall from the back of the chest, landing around Keith’s gut in a small pile. Finally, after that achingly slow process, he’s removed everything attaching the rear side of the lid to the trunk. Then he stands and retrieves the crowbar, going back to work. He’s able to wedge the bar right in, and after a few solid thrusts the locking mechanism snaps apart in a satisfying crunch. And there’s Eddy, his pale skin and flabby arms, the Bic pen makeup completely smeared and running with his tears. The skull mask and jar of spiders have been kicked down to his feet.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, kneeling beside the box, offering him my hand. ‘It’s gonna be –’
Eddy screams and sits up, eyes rolling around in his head, looking feral. And suddenly he’s up, out of the box, still screaming, and running for the stairs.
By the time I’m at the base of the steps, he’s whipped open the door to the basement and run screaming into the kitchen. Oh, shit, I’m thinking, just as Gorilla sprints between my legs in a blur of curly black fur, up the stairs and hot on Eddy’s tail. Then they’re gone, the boy and his dog, off toward the back door.
I turn to look back at Keith. He shrugs his shoulders, smiles.
‘Ring the bell,’ he says, and finishes his b
eer.
A few hours later. It’s about two in the morning, and Mom and Keith have been going at it for half an hour. Eddy’s been sent to bed and I’ve tried to do some cleaning, but mostly just to eavesdrop on their argument. I keep twisting the dishcloth in my hands, forearms dunked into the sink and fingers already rubbery. Eddy pissed his Speedo in the backyard and Gorilla went apeshit.
‘Oh my god, your fucking privacy. You’ve got all day to have your privacy, sitting on your ass. Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Suck my cock.’
‘I can’t take it anymore!’ Mom screams, and I cringe, ripping into the dishcloth. I want this to be over, want the heat between Keith and Mom to finally fizzle, break, and Mom to emerge victorious, kicking Keith’s ass to the curb in the process.
‘Will you just listen to me for a second?’ Keith howls.
‘No!’ Mom says, crying now, hysterical.
‘Why?’
‘Because I hate you! I fucking hate you! You’re a terrible man.’
‘Right, I’m so fucking terrible, looking after, cleaning up after these little shits. Well, fuck you, too!’
I stand perfectly still. Neither of them says a word, but Mom keeps crying. And then I hear the floorboards groaning over my head: Eddy’s heavy stomp down the hallway from his bedroom. And I hear a loud thud as he drops to the ground.
‘Listen to me. You never listen to what I’m saying,’ Keith says.
Mom keeps crying. Then, suddenly, ‘Do not touch me!’
‘I’m not doing anyth–’
‘Stop touching me oh god don’t touch me.’
In the world of professional wrestling, if a wrestler accidentally lands a blow or delivers a move with full force behind it, and subsequently injures his or her opponent, then this is called a potato. I guess you could say that I potatoed Eddy. Sealing him inside the chest was too much of a high-spot move; I should have known better. But then again, it was all in the spirit of the game – in other words, it was an accident. A typical wrestling match follows a vague script, ending with an agreed-upon outcome. And thus a typical wrestling match is called a work because everyone involved is working toward the same resolution. Eddy and I were working today – I never meant to seal him up, make him piss his pants or drive him crazy. I’m confident that I’ll be able to convince Eddy that we were only working, that it was all supposed to be fake. But the situation in the living room has surpassed the level of a work and entered into shoot territory: a scenario in which heat or animosity between two opponents is legitimate, unscripted. Real.
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