The office was blatantly inviting. Posters were wallpaper, most inspirational, a few showcasing the current teen celebrities being worshipped worldwide. Shelves held books in addition to popular toys—Transformers, a Cabbage Patch Doll, stuffed animals, games—strategically placed for all to see. A bowl of good candy (Joanne Lynch knew what the kids currently liked) was on her desk. This is not a dull place, the room pleaded. This is a cool place, kids—a place you can “chill” and “rap” with me whenever you want.
In front of Joanne Lynch’s desk were four cushy chairs positioned in a semicircle. Arty and Jim did not sit next to each other. They took a chair on each end of the half-circle so they could face one another. Arty had suggested this to Jim beforehand so that Jim could take cues from his older brother during the course of the session.
Jim looked at Arty as soon as the soda question was asked, and Arty shook his head with a subtlety that was invisible to anyone but Jim.
“No thank you,” Jim said.
Joanne looked at Arty. “Arthur?”
“Arty,” Arty said. Now, only one person on Earth was allowed to call him Arthur.
Joanne looked genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry. Arty. Would you like a soda?”
Arty shook his head slowly and said, “No thank you.”
Joanne smiled and took a seat behind her desk. She started to dig with a delicate blade. “So how does it feel to be back in the swing of things now?” she asked.
Both boys mumbled affirmative replies.
“Are you doing well in your classes?”
More hollow affirmatives.
“Arty, you’re the big man on campus now. A fifth grader. How are you liking it?”
“It’s fine.”
“Jim? How about you? You liking third grade?”
“Yeah.”
Joanne looked down at her desk and rubbed the nape of her neck. She was chipping at granite with a toothpick.
“Okay, boys…” She raised her head, breathed in. Time for a different approach. “I’m sure you know that your mother asked me to speak to you. And, well…that’s why we’re here. Your mother, and myself for that matter, are a little concerned about your behavior as of late.”
Arty frowned, and then Jim frowned.
“Were we bad?” Arty asked.
“No, no.” Joanne’s eyes widened, her hands waving in front of her. “My goodness no. You’ve both been fine. Please don’t think you’re in trouble here. In fact, the problem has been that you’ve been a little too fine…considering all you’ve been through.”
The brothers gave the woman a blank stare.
“Boys, you suffered a very serious loss, yet you’ve exhibited no signs of anguish or grieving whatsoever. You’re showing classic signs of denial and suppression—” Joanne quickly stopped, shook her head as though scolding herself, then repeated her words with more juvenile clarity. “What I mean is, you don’t seem to be bothered by your father’s death at all. Your mother and I think you might be holding it all in, and that maybe you’re afraid to let it out.”
Arty knew what to say. Even at the age of ten, he knew what this woman wanted to hear. He fed her. “I don’t think we understand.”
Joanne Lynch looked almost too eager to explain. “Well, you see, boys, it’s not uncommon for people—children especially—to hold very sad memories deep down inside so they can go on with their lives. It’s something called suppression.”
She paused a moment. When Arty realized she was gauging a response, he feigned interest and nodded understandingly. Joanne continued.
“I think witnessing your father’s death was so upsetting for you boys that you’ve almost pretended it never happened. You might even be thinking that your father may return someday.”
Arty envisioned his dead father reappearing on their doorstep, soaking wet and asking his sons why they decided to drown him with a large wooden oar. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
• • •
A minute of silence followed. Joanne Lynch had said her bit and seemed content to wait in that silence, perhaps hoping that tears would soon follow—a sure indicator that she had not only scratched the surface of the Fannelli boys, but made a sizeable crack to boot.
Arty knew the next move. He shot a quick glance at Jim that carried flared nostrils and a clenched jaw. Do as I’m about to do, Jim, it read.
And Jim took the cue perfectly. As soon as Arty dropped his head into his hands and started to cry, Jim did exactly the same.
Joanne Lynch hurried from behind her desk and pulled both boys in for the hug. As each boy took a shoulder, pretending to sob, they periodically exchanged goofy faces behind the woman’s back. Arty even pretended to squeeze Miss Lynch’s butt.
When Joanne released her hold on the boys, they did have tears in their eyes, but the culprit was hardly suppressed feelings of loss.
When the sniffling died down, Joanne spoke first. “How are you boys feeling?” she asked.
Arty nodded and muttered, “Fine.”
Jim did likewise.
“I think we might have had a real breakthrough here today,” she said. “I would really like it if we could meet again. We can talk about anything you want. Anything at all. What do you say?”
Jim looked at Arty who said, “Okay.”
“This meant a lot to me, boys. I hope it did to you too.”
• • •
Arty and Jim walked slowly out of Miss Lynch’s office, heads down. As their distance accumulated, so did their speed. When they rounded the corner and saw a clear path towards the boys’ room they started to sprint, ultimately bursting through the bathroom door where they fell to their knees in hysterics.
They laughed at how “concerned” Miss Lynch was. They laughed at the mention of Dad ever returning (Arty shared the image he envisioned in the office and Jim nearly wet himself). And they damn near laughed their lungs out recalling how Arty pretended to grab Miss Lynch’s ass.
But mostly, they laughed at the absolute absurdity of it all. Why aren’t you sad boys? Why aren’t you doing poorly in class, sulking up and down the hallways, being antisocial? How about this, lady: why do you give a shit? Because we sure don’t.
• • •
The two boys were still snickering when they walked outside and into the school’s parking lot. When they saw the gray Toyota pull up, any and all laughter stopped. Their anchor was here. The one whose unconditional love and purity had given them—and would continue to give for many years to come—the necessary social skills needed to behave…normally.
They didn’t truly know it just then, but they sensed it. They sensed that their mother, their bedrock, would play that pivotal role in the development of their lives, and at that moment the love and devotion they felt for her was almost paralyzing.
• • •
Both boys climbed into the Toyota, kissed their mother a big hello, and told her how well things had gone. More than a little pleased, Maria Fannelli drove off thinking she had done some serious good for her beloved boys.
50
The bedroom door swung open. Arty entered first and pulled the TV cart to one side so that both parents were in plain sight.
A few things happened then as the two children entered the room:
Carrie looked at the condition of her parents and blinked a lot.
Caleb looked at his parents, and then immediately turned towards his older sister to gauge her reaction.
Arty and Jim stepped back and watched the scene with fervent anticipation.
Both Amy and Patrick looked at their children with desperate expressions that managed to transcend the comprehensible limitations of age, instantly resonating in both children with the explosion of a thousand nightmares.
Carrie burst forward towards her parents, Caleb close behind.
Jim and Arty shut the bedroom door behind them and began taking witness to the start of what they’d created. They witnessed the Lamberts struggle desperately against their b
inds in an attempt to hug their children. Witnessed the children sob and take turns hugging each restricted parent, their innocent faces wrought with fear.
And they witnessed it with a satisfaction few could ever know.
“Carrie?” Arty said. His gentle tone was a whisper among the hysterical cries. He called louder. “Carrie?”
The little girl was in her father’s lap, her arms tight around his neck. She turned her head towards Arty but did not look at him.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked. “Can you hop off your daddy for a minute so we can push him up against that wall over there?” He pointed to his left.
Carrie turned away from Arty and clung tighter to her father. Arty huffed in a deliberate manner, and stepped forward, grabbing Carrie under both arms and yanking her off her father. Carrie screamed and Patrick’s face ballooned with rage.
“Honestly, Carrie,” Arty said, still with the theatrics. “You really need to start pulling your weight around here.”
The little girl flailed and screeched in Arty’s arms as he handed her to Jim, who took hold of her in a tight embrace.
“Carrie?” Arty called again. “Carrie, please stop screaming.”
Carrie continued to flail and holler. Arty sighed, then drove his fist into Patrick’s face. Patrick grunted on impact, silencing Carrie like a switch. She stared at her father, and then at the man who had just hit him with a look of disbelief, as though Arty had just broken some kind of playground rule.
“How about that?” Arty said to Jim. “I think the kid gets it already.” He turned back to Patrick. “Thank your daughter, bud. She just saved you a few more shots.”
Arty gripped Patrick’s chair, and with a solid jerk, spun him a quarter turn and pushed him all the way back against the wall.
He then glanced over at Caleb. The boy was curled into a ball on his mother’s lap, his head tucked into her chest.
“How you doing over there, champ?” he asked.
The boy didn’t budge.
Jim chuckled. “He looks like a fucking hedgehog doesn’t he?”
Arty didn’t respond to his brother. He was focused on Caleb. “Hellooooo? Caaaaaaaleb?”
The boy flinched upon hearing his name, but only burrowed harder into his mother’s chest. Amy hollered until her eyes bulged. Her words were more decipherable through the gag now. Patrick’s too. They had grown wet and thinner from the constant saliva and tears, and Amy’s hateful words were gargled but clear. “Leave hin aloe you huckin hastard!”
Arty put a hand to his chest as though insulted. He looked over at Jim. “She thinks we mean to harm the lad.” He returned to Amy and shook his head. “We’re here to entertain the children, Amy. Not hurt. Never hurt.”
Arty left the room. When he reappeared moments later he was carrying a green pillowcase filled with items that appeared heavy enough to stretch the material.
“Hey, Caleb,” Arty said. “Look what I’ve got.” Arty reached into the pillowcase and withdrew a flat rock the size of an egg. “What do you think? You think this is a good one? How many skips do you think I can get with this?”
Caleb’s head popped up from his mother’s chest and he looked at Arty with one eye. Arty stepped forward and held the rock in front of Caleb’s face. Caleb jerked his head away as though the rock might bite him.
“He doesn’t get it,” Jim said from the corner.
Arty sighed. “I know. I guess I’ll have to do the first one.”
Arty tossed the rock gently into the air then caught it. He weighed it up and down in his palm, puckered his lips and frowned as if determining its value. “You know, I think this is a good one,” he said.
Arty gripped the flat rock between his thumb and index finger, positioned his arm to the side. “Caleb, are you watching? Are you watching?” He smiled. “Because you’re going next, champ.”
Arty whipped the rock at Patrick, catching him square in the chest. There was a hollow thud on impact. Patrick’s head dipped as he let out a strained gasp.
Jim laughed.
“How many skips did I get on that one, Jim?” Arty asked.
“I’d say about three good ones,” he said. Jim looked down at Carrie and asked, “What do you think, sweetie? Is three about right?”
Carrie didn’t respond. She wasn’t ignoring him; she was in shock.
“What’s her deal?” Arty asked.
Jim shrugged, still keeping a good grip on her. “Taking a personal moment I guess.”
Arty nodded. “Fair enough. Her time will come.” He spun. “Caleb!” The boy jumped. “Come on, buddy, I’m waiting on you.”
Caleb began shaking, his whole body vibrating on his mother’s torso. Amy’s sobs of frustration changed to venomous snorts of spit and obscenities.
Arty walked calmly over to her and flicked her hard on the forehead. There was a thock! sound, and Amy winced from the blow. “Act like a lady,” Arty said.
Patrick growled behind him and Jim laughed again.
Arty reached into the sack and grabbed a second rock. “I’m gonna do it without you, Caleb. Here I go…I’m going…I’m gonna do it without you…”
Caleb’s reaction didn’t change. Arty shook his head. He flung the second rock and cracked Patrick in the forehead this time, a flesh-colored egg appearing instantly. Caleb didn’t see it, but screamed into his mother when he heard the smack of the rock on his father’s skull.
Arty looked at the boy and shrugged innocently. “I thought you liked this shit, Caleb.” He turned to Jim. “What gives?”
“They’re just not getting it.”
“No shit. I mean come on, little man, who would you rather have throwing these things, you or me?” Arty walked next to Patrick. “Because I can keep doing it if you want, but I think your old man might prefer less of an arm.” Arty dug his thumb into the egg on Patrick’s head. Amy cursed and hollered as Patrick groaned in pain.
Caleb stayed rooted to his mother. Arty threw up his hands. “He’s never gonna get it.”
“Maybe we need to change the rules a bit?” Jim asked.
“How’s that?”
Jim threw Carrie into Arty. He caught her and felt her dead weight against him; there wasn’t even the smallest attempt at a struggle.
It was now Jim’s turn to leave the room. He returned with three knives—two in one hand, one in the other. Each knife was twelve inches long and sharp enough to shave with.
Jim handed the knives to Arty, and Arty handed Carrie back to Jim.
Arty held the knives up for all to see. “You want me to use these?” he asked.
“Sure beats a rock,” Jim said.
Arty touched the point of the blade and pricked his index finger. A drop of blood grew on the tip. He watched the drop grow bigger until it dripped a red line down to his palm. He licked the red line up to the tip of his finger, sucked then smacked his lips on the wound and said, “Sure does.”
51
The recent substitution to the game—the knives—caused a spastic uproar from Amy. Her garbled swearing increased despite her four-year-old son on her chest.
Patrick’s reaction to the knives was different. It appeared a sort of heroic defiance, almost willing his captors to throw them; his chest was out and his head was upright.
Amy wanted to scold her husband’s bravado. She understood his behavior (oh how she understood), but she feared it would only incite their antagonists. Or worse yet, make their sick game more enjoyable.
But she knew her husband. She knew he was a big teddy bear. But she also knew he had a breaking point. And that point had been broken a long fucking time ago. His rage was now bubbling beneath the lid, periodically hissing as it touched the burner beneath. She just prayed his wrath still clung to common sense. That dying with your boots on was not the goal now—salvation was.
“Alright,” Arty said. “I’m gonna give this a try. Last chance, Caleb!”
No response.
“Fine.”
Arty whistled
the first knife towards Patrick. Amy watched right up until the last second before impact, shutting her eyes tight before the knife had a chance to find its home. She only opened them when she heard the knife pierce the drywall behind her husband.
He had missed.
“Shit,” Arty said.
“It’s alright, bro,” Jim said. “You’ve got two more.” Jim glanced at Amy, winked and said, “Don’t worry; he’s good at this. Could have been in the fucking circus.”
Arty looked at the two knives in his hands, then at Caleb glued to Amy’s chest. “I want the kid to watch this,” he said.
Jim pushed Carrie into a corner and told her to sit. She did as she was told and fell into a catatonic slump, sucking her thumb and staring at nothing.
Jim then stepped forward and ripped Caleb from Amy’s chest. Amy shrieked and fought so hard the chair fell over, her head and shoulder colliding hard with the wooden floor. The impact did not deter her tirade as she continued to scream and fight.
Both brothers laughed at the overturned chair as Jim hoisted Caleb up and into his arms. The boy was the opposite of Carrie’s dead weight; he was a tightly wound ball trying to retreat into himself. Both he and his sister had shut down. It was as simple as that. Their young minds just couldn’t process the horrific goings-on that were happening around them, and their only available coping mechanism was to switch off.
So when Jim felt the boy’s rigid weight in his arms, turned and fixed on Carrie’s blank stare in the corner, he fronted his brother and said, “These kids are going to be useless, man.”
Arty was not so easily deterred. “Bullshit.” He gripped knife number two in one hand, and peeled Caleb’s head back from his brother’s shoulder with the other, placing the blade directly in front of the boy’s face. “You’re going to watch, Caleb. You were too stupid to play, so now you’re going to watch.”
Arty spun and whipped knife number two at Patrick. The knife stuck deep within the drywall next to Patrick’s head, missing again.
“Shit! I hit him both fucking times with the rocks!” Arty said.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 19