Thunderland

by Brandon Massey

  She shook her head. “No, baby. I know the real reason why you work so hard. You’re brainwashed.”

  “What?”

  “Yes—brainwashed. Your dad’s brainwashed you. You’re a workaholic like he was, because he taught you that’s how a real man runs a business. But a real man works hard, then comes home and spends quality time with his family. You work hard, but you’ve forgotten your duty to us. Think about it. When was the last time you saw Jason?”

  Thomas leaned against the counter. He sighed. “Last week, if I remember correctly. Damn, that’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “He’s a good kid,” she said, “but he needs you. I need you, too. I only wish you needed us.”

  “I do need you, both of you,” he said. “I figured I’d have a chance in the future to spend time with you, do the family thing. There’re so many people out there struggling to make ends meet, and I don’t want us to ever be like that.”

  “We’re a long way from poor, Thomas.”

  “True. But the very thought of poverty ... it scares me. You know how I grew up, Linda. In a three-room shack crawling with roaches and rats. A nightmare. When Dad opened the restaurant, we finally climbed out of that hell, and I feel like I owe The House of Soul and my dad for saving us.”

  Her eyes were kind, understanding, filled with love. So much love that his heart kicked.

  He went on. “You ever heard that saying, ‘once poor, never rich’? It fits me. I’m worried that if I cut down my work hours, I’ll be turning my back on my job, my father—and I’ll lose everything. I want to make so much money that we’ll never have to worry about being poor—ever.”

  “You can waste a lifetime chasing that dream,” Linda said. “Thomas, you already bring home twice what you earned only four years ago. We’ve got plenty of money socked away in our investment portfolio, and enough saved for Jason to attend almost any college he wants. Face it, we’re doing very well for ourselves.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Anything can happen. The stock market can crash; banks can fold; the restaurant can go under-and everything we have would be wiped out, forcing us to live in a shelter or, even worse, survive on the streets, picking our dinner out of garbage cans and begging for spare change. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You need to relax, honey. Forget the doomsday scenarios and live. Enjoy life. Enjoy your family. “

  “I hear you. You’re right. But ... hell, maybe I am brainwashed. I probably sound like a nutcase to you.”

  Arms folded over her chest, she watched him, silent.

  He bowed his head. “I’ll work on cutting down my hours,” he said. It was the right thing to say, but he wasn’t confident about his ability to follow through; the familiar fear of losing everything gnawed at him. “But I can’t change my habits overnight. I hope you have patience. I have a long way to go.”

  She stepped into his arms and hugged him fiercely. At first he did not respond, for as an adulterer, he did not think he deserved his wife’s embrace. But the feeling of her against him, so warm and firm—so alive—overwhelmed him. He drew her closer and kissed her brow, loving her sweet scent and everything else about her and cursing himself under his breath.

  “All of us have a long way to go, honey,” she said, her head resting on his chest. “But if we go together, we’ll be fine. I have faith. Our relationship’s been at rock bottom for so long that we can only go uphill.”

  “You’re right,” he said, though he didn’t feel as if he was due to travel uphill. As he ruminated on the shameful truth he had left unspoken, he felt as if he were plummeting into a cold, dark place of unrelenting torment ... and inescapable guilt.

  After Jason repaired his bike with spare parts that Brains had found in his garage, he rode home around five o’clock. He planned to ask Mom whether his friends could sleep over. He disliked having to ask her for any favors, but if he refused to ask, the fellas would want to know why, and he did not want to expose his turbulent relationship with Mom. It was easier to ask her and get it over with.

  The .22 that Brains had given him rested in an ankle holster, which Brains had also loaned him. Earlier that day, Brains had taught him the fundamentals of using the handgun: how to load it, the correct shooter’s stance, how to aim and fire the weapon, and other basic techniques. Jason did not feel confident enough to battle the Stranger one-on-one, but he felt safer than he had before. His jeans concealed the weapon.

  He had also spoken to his girlfriend. After he apologized for not calling her yesterday, he reaffirmed his promise to take her to the Fourth of July carnival that Friday. She had been talking about the carnival for days, and though he had been enthusiastic about it originally, with all this stuff with the Stranger going on, his interest had waned. But if he wanted to keep her happy, he would have to take her. Life goes on.

  Once he reached the house, he pushed his bike toward the garage, intending to park it inside since he would be home for the rest of the day. He opened the side door. As usual, his father’s car was not there, but his mother’s Nissan was inside. Sunbeams streaming through the garage window revealed something else in there, too.

  He stopped. He told himself that he could not be seeing this. But he prayed that it was actually real.

  A Randolph Street M9000. It leaned on its kickstand in front of the car, chrome frame glittering in the sunshine, as shiny and new as a model that had just rolled off the assembly line.

  The white Mylar balloon that was tied to the handlebars read in big, blue letters:

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Trembling, Jason stared at the Randolph. He admired it from various angles, not touching it, irrationally afraid that it would dissolve like a phantasm under his fingers. Every sleek inch of the chrome bicycle had been obsessively polished; seeing its dazzling luster, it was easy to believe that it had never been touched by a human hand, as though the sheer power of his wishing had created it from empty air.

  Finally, he clutched the handgrips.

  It’s mine. It’s really mine.

  Sometimes, dreams did come true.

  He rushed toward the house to thank his mother. When he reached the door that linked the garage to the kitchen, he halted.

  He had not told either of his parents about the Randolph. Assuming they would never buy it, he had kept his mouth shut.

  He had not spoken of the bike to Granddad, either. Granddad might have bought it for him, but Jason would have felt uncomfortable asking for such an expensive gift.

  In fact, he had not even mentioned the bike to Shorty and Brains. The only person to whom he had confided his wish was Mr. MacGregor, the owner of the bike shop. Not only did Mr. MacGregor not know his birthday was coming soon, there was no way he would have given him one of his store’s finest products. It was impossible.

  So ... who had given him the Randolph?

  The answer struck him. It was incredible yet sensible, mysterious yet obvious. The phone call last night. The curiously familiar voice. The Stranger.

  I know what you need, I know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you.

  He looked at the bicycle, at the Mylar balloon proclaiming “Happy Birthday.”

  I’m going to give it to you.

  The Stranger had given him the bike. He was certain.

  He suddenly felt sick.

  He stumbled to his mother’s car and sat on the bumper. Bent over, he breathed deeply. His heart slammed so hard, his chest hurt.

  Again he glanced at the bike, the balloon.

  I’m going to give it to you.

  Who was the Stranger?

  Why was he doing these things?

  Jason would have done anything to end this, anything to quell the terror that had grabbed hold of him yesterday morning and tightened its grip on him with each passing hour.

  He stood. In need of fresh air, he left the garage and walked along the side of the house. He ordered himself to think. Being scared would not help him. What was
he going to do?

  He thought of a source that he and the fellas had not explored yet: the cops. Earlier, they had not possessed any evidence that could have aided the police in an investigation. But the Randolph was proof. Maybe the cops could lift fingerprints from it, or hair, saliva, blood-anything, because the smallest clue could lead to the perpetrator’s doorstep. Yeah, the cops. The cops would prove that none of this was as weird or frightening as it appeared to be.

  Or maybe, as he feared, they would prove nothing at all.

  * * *

  The white-and-green sedan bearing the insignia of the Spring Harbor Police Department parked in front of the house.

  The policeman met Jason and his mother near the garage. Jason related how he had discovered the Randolph, but he left out the other things the Stranger had done. He wanted help, not ridicule. He hoped the clues gathered from the bike alone would be enough to catch the enemy.

  “I’ve been on the force seventeen years, and I have to admit, that’s one of the strangest stories I’ve ever heard,” the officer said when Jason had finished.

  “I feel the same way,” Mom said, standing beside Jason. “If I had heard it from someone else, I would have dismissed it as a joke. But Jason wouldn’t make up something like this. He’s mature for his age.”

  Jason smiled briefly at her.

  Mom had pulled her car out of the garage, providing a clear path to the bicycle, which Jason had left sitting in its original position. Hands clasped behind him, the cop walked slowly around the bike.

  “Impressive, very impressive,” he said. “Whoever polished this did an incredible job. As though they were determined to gain your approval.” He regarded the Mylar balloon. “That’s a nice touch. Happy birthday. When’s your birthday, kid?”

  “July nineteenth,” Jason said. “I’ll be fourteen.”

  “Really? I’ve a fourteen-year-old son. He’d flip if he got a birthday gift like this.” The cop bent down and examined the chrome frame. “No city registration sticker, engraved name, or serial number on here. Odd.”

  “You think it might’ve been stolen?” Mom said.

  He rose. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m going to check around. Excuse me for a couple of minutes, folks.” He returned to his sedan. Jason saw him speaking on a cell phone.

  Jason turned to Mom. “What do you think?”

  “It’s weird, honey,” she said. “Very weird.”

  “That bike costs fifteen hundred dollars,” he said. “I’ve been wanting it for months.”

  She cocked her head. “You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Yeah, right. You wouldn’t have bought it for me.”

  “I might have.”

  “Whatever, Mom.”

  “How can you be sure of what I’ll do unless you ask? From now on, if you want anything, you tell me. I won’t promise you that I’ll get you everything you ask for, but at least give me a chance, Jason.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not like I used to be. I keep telling you. One of these days, I hope you’ll believe me.”

  “The cop’s coming back,” Jason said, glad that they could change the subject.

  “I’ve talked to Mr. MacGregor, who runs the only store in the city that sells these bicycles,” the officer said. “He hasn’t reported having any of his bikes stolen. According to police headquarters, no one in town has reported a stolen Randolph, either.”

  “Maybe someone bought it,” Mom said. “Jason says he visits Mr. MacGregor’s store often. Mr. MacGregor might have told someone about Jason, and that person might have bought the bike for Jason, for whatever odd reasons.”

  The cop shook his head. “I pursued that line. No good. MacGregor hasn’t sold one of those bicycles in months.”

  “Why does it matter whether it was bought or stolen?” Jason said. “Can’t you just lift the fingerprints from it and identify the guy?”

  “The law doesn’t work like that, kid,” the cop said. “Before I can call in a fingerprint technician, we need a strong reason to believe a crime has been committed. This is a bizarre occurrence, certainly, but 1don’t see any proof of wrongdoing.”

  “You’re kidding,” Mom said.

  “I wouldn’t kid about this, Mrs. Brooks,” he said. “These days, most police departments in the country have huge backlogs of cases that need attending to: serious cases of homicide, rape, child molestation, you name it. The cops in Spring Harbor are under the same pressure. Our suspicion of criminal conduct has to be solid before we can justify the manpower needed to begin an investigation. I don’t mean to make light of your fears, but I’d get laughed out of my department if I requested a fingerprint man for this. It looks as if someone’s simply given you a gift, kid. There’s no law against giving birthday presents.”

  Jason stared at him. “That’s it? You can’t do anything?”

  “I’m sorry, kid,” he said. “My hands are tied.”

  “But couldn’t Jason be in danger?” Mom said. ‘We don’t know who did this. We don’t know what might happen next.”

  “I understand,” the cop said. “It’s frightening. Especially now, when there seems to be a psychopath living on every block. But like I said, no law’s been broken.”

  “And you can’t do anything until you suspect a law has been broken,” Mom said, punctuating her statement with a loud sigh.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Brooks,” the officer said.

  Mom looked at Jason. “I guess we’ll have to handle this on our own.”

  “I guess so,” Jason said, though he had no intention of involving his mother any further. She was the last person he wanted to have caught up in his business.

  The cop’s eyes softened. “If you want, I’ll impound the bike. We’ll wait a while and see if one is eventually reported missing, and if not, either you can pick it up or we’ll sell it at an auction. It’s up to you.”

  “Take it,” Jason said. “Keep it. I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  “All right, kid.” The policeman went to the Randolph. He punctured the Mylar balloon with a pocketknife, flipped up the kickstand, and rolled the bike to his patrol car. After he secured it in the trunk, he turned to them.

  “Once again, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much help.”

  “You did what you could,” Mom said.

  “Which wasn’t anything, unfortunately.” He opened his car door. “You folks take care. If anything else happens, call us immediately. “

  “We will,” Mom said. “Thanks.”

  Nodding at them, the officer slipped inside his cruiser. He drove away, the bike jutting from the trunk, sparkling in the sunlight as the sedan rolled out of sight.

  Jason had never been so relieved to see a Randolph Street M9000 disappear. Once the bike of his dreams, it had become part of his nightmares.

  Freshly showered, clothed in a monogrammed black bathrobe with gold trim, Thomas hesitated at the closed door of the master bedroom. Inside, Linda was probably reading in bed. And anticipating a night of passionate lovemaking.

  In spite of their talk that afternoon about reviving their relationship, Thomas didn’t plan on fulfilling her sexual expectations. Sex, within the institution of marriage, was sacred, the ultimate means by which a couple celebrated their union. How could he make love to Linda while living a lie that mocked the very concept of marriage? If he were an honest man, he would abstain-and reveal the truth. That was what he had to do tonight, or else he would sink so deeply into this pit of deceit that he might never climb out.

  Bracing himself, he opened the door.

  Linda sat in bed, reading by the buttery glow of the bedside lamp. Except for the personalized monogram, her robe matched his exactly. The marital harmony that their clothing suggested intensified his guilt. As an adulterer, he had no business wearing this robe.

  Linda placed the book on the nightstand. She came to him.

  “I love the way you smell after you shower,” she said, her arms encircling his waist. “So clean an
d strong. If you were a bar of soap, I’d rub you all over me—everywhere.”

  She raised her face. He lowered his head, touched his lips against hers. Her mouth was warm and soft, ripe for kissing. She nibbled gently at his lower lip. He ran his tongue across her teeth, and she pressed herself more tightly against him, the warmth and firmness of her body stirring his desire. He slid his hands down and cupped her hips ...

  ... and heard Big George’s raspy voice whispering like a snake in his ear: “Like father, like son ... You just like me, Tommy ... Just like me ... Like father, like son. “

  He pulled away from Linda.

  “Linda, I’m sorry. I ... can’t. Not tonight.”

  “You can’t what?”

  “Make love to you.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I’m a low-down dog and making love to you would only make me feel worse, he longed to say but didn’t. He merely sat on the bed. “I’m ... too tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “Too tired? You came home from work earlier than you have in years. How can you suddenly be too tired? Especially now?”

  “I don’t know, but I am.” It was a lame reply, but he could not say anything else; a block of wood seemed to have lodged in his throat. He lay on his back.

  She sat beside him. “Something’s bothering you.”

  He did not respond.

  She touched his hand. “When you’re upset, I am, too. Come on, baby. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  He sat up and looked at her. He almost told her the truth. But as he thought about how much she meant to him and how deeply he loved her—and most of all, how much the truth would hurt her—he could not say the words his conscience urged him to speak. He could not risk telling her something that might tear her away from him. Because without her, he would be hollower than he already was.

  “Thomas,” she said, arms crossed.

  “It’s nothing, sweetheart. I’m just tired.”

  “Is it another woman?”

  He almost choked. “What?”

  “Have you been sleeping around?” She watched him closely.

  He pulled one of her legs onto his lap and massaged her calf. “Come on, be realistic. Considering the hours I’ve been working, when would I have time for an affair? Assuming, of course, that I’d be stupid enough to have one in the first place.” He lifted her foot, kissed it. Her pretty feet, with their meticulously pedicured, red-painted toenails, had always been sexy to him, and kissing one of them helped him avoid her perceptive eyes.