“Fifteen?” Scott’s eyes took on a far-away look, as he tried to absorb this. “Wow… how many did the dad have?”
Todd shrugged. “I forget. A bunch. The one with the most was the sister, I think.” He looked at his brother, and his face took on a cruel grin as he lowered his voice to add,
“The brothers said they killed the sister last, and that she begged them to let her go and said she’d never tell anyone what happened. But they stabbed her anyway.”
“Man.” Scott looked around briefly, feeling uneasy. “What did they do to them? When they caught them?”
“They had a trial, dumbass. Whatdya think? They went on trial. They got the death penalty, too. They’re going to execute them next year, I think.”
“They’re going to kill them?”
“Sure. They deserve it, right? Wouldn’t you want me to die if I killed you and Mom?”
Scott frowned. “I thought people went to jail for stuff, when they had a trial. How do they kill you? Do they stab you or shoot you or something?”
“No, moron.” Todd laughed. “They don’t always kill you, just for real bad stuff like murder and spying, shit like that.”
“Then they shoot you?”
“They use poison. Gas maybe, or they give you a shot. They used to hang you.”
Scott had seen hangings in the movies, so he nodded wisely. “When they hang you, they tie your feet so you won’t kick and they put a bag over your head.”
“Yeah. So people won’t see your eyeballs popping out.”
“Gross! Your eyeballs come out?”
“Sure. Wanna see?” Todd put his hands around his neck and squeezed hard. His face grew red, then slightly purple, and he stuck his tongue out. “Arrrrhhh, agggghhhhh…” he moaned, in a mock death-rattle.
“Quit it, Todd. Quit it!” Scott leaned forward and grabbed Todd’s shoulder, shaking it. He looked frightened, but he was grinning. “Don’t, it’s creepy.”
Todd let loose of his neck and coughed, looking in the rearview mirror to see if his eyes were red.
“Did they burn them or bury them?”
“Who?”
“The dead guys. The ones those brothers killed.”
Todd snorted. “I dunno, what the hell does it matter?”
“Just wondered,” Scott replied, picking at a scab on his arm. “I just wondered, was all. If they burned them, there’s nobody left to keep an urn with the ashes. Like we have Grandpa’s.”
“They might have cremated them and scattered the ashes somewhere. Not all ashes get put in urns, dickweed.”
“Oh.” The younger brother shrugged and peeled the scab off, relishing the sight of the blood as it beaded up out of the wound. He put his arm to his mouth and licked the blood off. He hadn’t realized ashes could be scattered.
Their mother slammed the trunk shut and pushed her cart into the parking space next to them. “Alright,” she said as she swung into place behind the steering wheel. “When we get home I expect help unloading all this and then I want you boys to get your laundry sorted out for me to wash.”
Todd groaned, but Scott was silent.
Chapter 6
A few weeks after his failed attempt to steal an orange candy, Scott had a birthday. His mother said she was too tired to have a party, but she came to school with cupcakes for his class. They were decorated with pink sprinkles. She kissed him on the cheek in front of everyone and patted his head.
The day after that, Scott came home from school with torn pants. He’d been crying, that much was obvious. Now he was sitting in the kitchen, trying not to cry again. His mother was stomping around in circles nearby, on the phone. Talking to his teacher.
“I see… I see, yes… Well, thank you. He should know better than to engage in… mm-hmm… mm-hmm…”
Scott folded his arms around and rubbed his shoulders, wincing as the cut on his hand opened up again and bled on his shirt. He glanced at the blood and then away again with a groan. He’d be in even more trouble for that. His hand seeped blood and he looked around, then blotted it on his pants. They were already bloody, anyway.
The boys had called him a faggot. He was supposed to ignore insults. Everyone had always said so. Ignore the bullies. Sticks and stones. But he hadn’t been able to.
The biggest one – Fred – had kicked him, and he’d tried to run away, but Loop had caught him easily and held him. They called him Loop, but his name was really Lupe. Lupe was mean and fast. He held Scott by the arms and Fred kicked him again in the legs, then pulled back a fist and gut-punched him. When Loop let go then, Scott fell down on his knees.
“That’s good, faggot. Get used to it, on your knees. You like being a fag, pussy?”
One of the teachers finally noticed the scuffle and made slow progress toward the boys where the scene was playing out in the dry playground dirt. His aggressors had fled, leaving Scott where he knelt, aching in his stomach and his heart. It had happened during afternoon recess. The teacher asked if he wanted them to call his mother, but Scott had said no. He had finished out the day, hoping to hide the pants from his mother when he got home. But she’d seen him before he got changed, and marched him into the kitchen to sit and wait while she “got the story” from his teacher.
It hadn’t been his fault. Scott knew it hadn’t been his fault, but he still felt guilty, sitting there in the hard chair, kicking at the rungs and looking at his bloody, torn pants and the torn knees that went with them. It wasn’t fair. Loop was in his class, but he was the same age as Fred because he’d been held back. Fred was a fifth-grader. They were always getting in fights – usually picking on the younger kids.
Scott hadn’t done a thing. But now, his mother was angry – and who was she angry at?
Not them. His mother was angry at him.
She hung up the phone and stood over him, shaking her head.
“Scotty! Look at your pants – they’re ruined. Do you think I can afford to buy new pants every other day because you want to fight like a hoodlum? And you’ve got blood on your new shirt, too.”
“But, Mom—”
“But nothing! Go up to your room, and change your clothes. I want you to think about this, Scott. Your teacher said it wasn’t completely your fault, but I’m sure you must have done something. Why would another boy just take after you, if you didn’t do anything to provoke him?”
“It wasn’t just a boy, there were two of them. They were bigger than me. I didn’t do anything!”
“You could get yourself hurt, Scott. Use your head, for God’s sake. Don’t get into these… these situations. Now get out of my sight for a while, please. I’m very upset with you.” As he headed down the hall, she called after him, “Put that shirt in cold water to soak, Scotty. Maybe we can save that, at least.”
Scott stormed to his room, shut the door as hard as he dared, and flung himself onto the bed, weeping. Not fair. This was so unfair. These situations, she had said. Like this happened every week. Like he did it every day.
How was he supposed to avoid these situations? They had attacked him, the fucking bullies. Fucking pussies. They’re the ones, not me. It was her fault anyway. She was the one who made him wear the stupid shirt that got him in trouble. She was the one who patted his head in front of all the guys like he was a pet poodle.
He rolled over, wincing, and stripped off his clothes. His knees were a wreck of scabs, but his belly hurt worse. Nothing showed there, though, just a belly like it always was. Except it felt like there was a rock in it; a big, hot rock. There were bruises on his legs. At least they hadn’t kicked him in the nuts. They would have gotten around to it, eventually. He was lucky the teacher came. She was nice; she’d given him some Kleenex to clean up with.
Not clean enough, though. Mom was mad. She didn’t care that he’d been beaten up. She didn’t care they called him names. All she cared about were the pants. The stupid pants and the stupid shirt.
He wadded the pants up and threw them in the corner, then sat on t
he bed, looking at the shirt. Why couldn’t Loop have torn that while he was at it? He could have at least done him that favor. It was pink. Well, it was mostly grey – but with fat pink stripes. It looked like something one of the prep school guys would wear. The ones who played tennis and had maids, like Richie Rich in the comics. It had drawn Loop in like a magnet. (“Pink’s for fags, fag. You want to suck me, fag?”)
And now his mother wanted to fucking “save” it. He looked at the bloodprint. Maybe if he didn’t soak it fast enough, it wouldn’t come out. In fact, maybe he should make sure there was more blood on it.
He patted his hand against the shirt again, but it didn’t have much effect. The cut on his hand wasn’t really deep enough. He rubbed it harder. That hurt, but it did get the blood moving again. Only a little, though. He ground his hand in vigorously, biting his lip against the pain. He found that it didn’t hurt as much as he expected it to. In fact, he was sort of enjoying it. He felt brave. And it took his mind off the rock in his stomach.
After he got blood deeply ground into several places on the shirt, he hid it under his pillow. Tomorrow, he’d dampen it and leave it in the hamper, so it looked like he’d soaked it. He snuck down the hall into the bathroom and sucked the dried blood off his hand while he looked for a bandage. He didn’t find one, and he gave up looking.
When he closed the door to the medicine cabinet, his red, haunted eyes looked back out at him. He whispered to his reflection, and his reflection whispered back.
“They’re the loser faggots, Scott. Not you.”
Chapter 7
They carved pumpkins for Halloween. Pam laid out newspapers on the kitchen table for them to pile the pumpkin goo on.
“Now, watch it, Todd. That’s sharp. Be careful.”
“I know, I know.” Todd rolled his eyes and stabbed the pumpkin, sawing at the top. He looked at Scott. “We have to take the lid off first. I’ll do mine, and then I’ll do yours, and then we can both scoop out the gunk.”
“OK.”
“Get the big spoons. The ones in the left drawer. I’m putting a scary face on mine. What face are you going to make?”
Scott turned to the drawer for the spoons. “Mean. I want a mean face. Can you help me make it look mean?”
“Sure. Here, start scooping.”
The brothers worked for a while at this. Scott squealed with amused disgust at each spoonful of innards he removed from the pumpkins. Todd grabbed a handful of the stringy stuff and put it in Scott’s hair.
“Gah! Ew! That’s gross,” Scott snarled. But he was laughing, and a few minutes later he did the same thing back to Todd.
“Now we need to get a pencil or something.” Todd looked around and found a pencil by the telephone. He started sketching out a face on his pumpkin.
Scott watched, fascinated. “Are those the eyes?”
“Yeah, dummy. What else would they be?”
“Could be ears or something.”
Todd snorted. “Jack-o-Lanterns don’t have ears.”
“Could. I saw one where they had the guts coming out like it was barf.”
Todd nodded, but said nothing.
Most of the first pumpkin was carved out when Pam came in to check on them. She picked pumpkin strings out of Scott’s hair and shook her head. She moved around to the front of Todd’s pumpkin and made a face. “That’s a scary-looking thing. Don’t you want a happy one?”
“No!” Both boys cried out at once.
Pam turned to look at the face Scott was drawing. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s the nose. Todd’s gonna help me draw the teeth in a minute.”
“I can help you draw. Here, give me your pencil.” Pam reached out, and Scott frowned as she took the pumpkin and drew a big, happy smile.
“No-o, Mom! I want a mean face. Not a smiley one.”
“Your brother already has a scary face. We should have a nice one, too. A smiling one. It’s still scary. Look.” She held it up. “See how nice that will be? Here, give me the knife.”
“I was gonna do it myself.” Scott blinked and looked at Todd, but there was no support from that quarter. Todd was busy on his own pumpkin. His own scary pumpkin. Scott sighed and watched as his mother carved at the face.
“Now, let me just even up this nose,” she said. “Why on earth did you make the nose so big?”
“That was part of the—” Scott began, but didn’t get to finish. Pam cut her finger.
“Ow! Damn it,” she hissed. “Todd, run and get me a band-aid from my bathroom. Top shelf. Jesus, that stings.”
Scott brought her a paper towel. “Is it bad?”
“The damn knife was slippery. I told you boys these knives are dangerous. I’ll have to think long and hard about doing this again next year. I could have cut my finger off!”
“But—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, Scott. You know how I hate that.” She sucked at her finger and held it up, looking at it. Scott looked, too. It bled a lot but it didn’t look like it was a very big cut. He was tempted to say so, but held back. Todd returned with the band-aid and helped his mother put it on.
“Alright, let’s just get done with this. I have a headache now. Todd, yours is done isn’t it?” When he nodded, she went on, “Put it on the counter. Scott, this nose will just have to stay like it is. I don’t have it in me to work on this anymore.” She quickly sliced two triangles for eyes. “There, it’s done. Put this on the counter with your brother’s and start cleaning up this mess.”
She left the kitchen, and Scott glared at his pumpkin. “That sucks,” he muttered.
Todd smiled a small smile. “Sorry, dude. It’s not that bad. Next year I’ll help you make a mean one.”
“But she’s not gonna let us do it next year. She said.”
“Don’t worry about it. Here, come on. Help me with all this junk. Take that bag to the trash. I’m going to Paul’s to play video games when we get done. He’s got a new shooter and he says nobody has beaten him yet.”
Scott took the bag and shuffled to the trashcan with it. When he got back to the table, Todd had most of the mess taken care of.
“Ok, I’m out. You get the rest, I’ll see you later.”
Off he went, leaving Scott feeling like he’d been in a storm. Hurricane Mom. Blows in, screws everything up, blows out again. He sorted out the knives and put them in the sink.
He sat at the table looking at the jack-o-lanterns. Todd’s was pretty good. His looked like a four-year-old had done it. His mother had made the nose way too big; she hadn’t even followed the lines he’d drawn. And that smile. God. The best part of the whole thing were the eyes. She’d been in such a hurry to do them that she’d made them uneven which made them look at least a little bit scary. Scott traced his finger over the mouth. If he had the courage, he could get a knife and make the smile turn down on the corners or maybe give it some fangs. Something. Something so it didn’t look like some first-grade girl did it. He went to the sink and picked up the knife and thought about it, wondering if she’d notice. Before he decided to try anything, his mother called him from the other room.
“Scott! Scotty, where are you? Come in here, please.”
Scott put the knife back in the sink and went to the living room. His mother was lying on the couch with a washcloth over her eyes.
“This headache is getting worse. Go to my bedroom and get me my pills. Headache pills. They’re on the nightstand next to the bed.”
“Can we put the jack-o-lanterns outside and light them when it gets dark?”
Pam sighed, squinting at him. She looked at her watch. “Maybe, we’ll see. Go get me the pills, Scotty.”
Scott padded down the hall. His mother’s room smelled of perfume. Scott figured this must be how his mother smelled, but he never got that close long enough to smell it on her. In here, it was very strong. He wondered if all women had rooms that smelled like this. The nightstand was cluttered with items, and he took a few moments to look them o
ver before picking up the prescription bottle. These were pills for stress, she’d said before. Now she was calling them headache pills. Maybe it was the same.
He took them back to her and she washed them down. He left her lying on the couch and went outside to play in the cold evening air. He liked to walk across the lawn and crunch leaves under his feet. He got a large stick and beat the trees in the front yard to knock extra leaves off, then skewered them with the stick until he had a thick stack. The rough stick scraped the scabs on his hand, and he stopped to look at them. They weren’t bleeding, only raw. He gripped the stick tightly and stabbed at more leaves.
It would be dark in less than an hour. Scott hoped he could put the pumpkins out. Todd was supposed to be home by dark. Maybe once Todd got back, they could both ask. She might let them if they both asked.
“She won’t let me just for me,” Scott said, whacking the tree trunk with his stick. “Ya, yiiii-ya, take that! Karate-chop you! Ya!” If it was just for him, she’d say no. It was a few days early. Usually they kept them in the fridge until the night before Halloween, but last year they’d put them out two days before.
Pam was afraid to leave them out too long, because kids would take them and smash them in the street. “Or against the house, or the car!” she’d told the boys. “You don’t want your nice pumpkins to be wrecked before Halloween, so we won’t put them out too early.”
Why they couldn’t just bring them in at night, Scott wasn’t sure. He’d wanted to ask, but Todd had hushed him. So, they just waited. At least she let them carve the pumpkins early. Last year, Todd had put them in the kitchen and lit them (briefly) in the dark, so they could see how they looked. Maybe he could do that again, if she wouldn’t let Todd put them out tonight. He stood in the cooling air and waved his stick, remembering last year’s pumpkins and wondering how this year’s would look.
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