by Rod Redux
Delusions of grandeur, Hank thought.
Steve left shortly after Hank’s mother and stepdad pulled into the driveway. Hank embraced him at the doorway, promising his brother-in-law that he would be careful and watch out for Dean, assuring him that, Yes, he believed him now, how could he not after what he’d just seen Steve do? And all the while, Hank mourned inside for Steve’s mental state. Hank never would have believed it if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears, seen it with his own eyes.
He would never have thought Steve was crazy, too... not until today.
Hank scrolled down through the website he was browsing. This one was mostly about the history of psychic phenomenon, with detailed explanations of how the world’s most prominent psychics had performed their famous hoaxes. Psychokinesis, shortened to the initials PK by the website, was a common ruse. It was mostly sleight of hand, mental suggestion, tricks of static electricity, sometimes even little hairs or strings attached to the objects being manipulated.
Hank had reproduced Steve’s display of “psychic powers” by holding his palms to either side of a pencil and blowing out carefully through his lips, angling the stream of air off his palm onto the end of the yellow number two. He did this after everyone had left, just to prove it to himself.
He didn’t think Steve had knowingly done the same thing earlier. He was sure his brother-in-law had done it subconsciously… but Hank was sure that was how the illusion was accomplished all the same.
Hank closed out his internet browser with a sigh. The monitor flickered back to his desktop. He stared at the screen for a little while, lost in thought, then set a photo of Mary as his desktop wallpaper.
She smiled from the LCD monitor, young and happy, and he admired her sweet girl-next-door features: her bright generous grin, almond-shaped eyes and dark wavy hair.
The photo was from their trip to New Orleans in ‘95. They’d attended Mardi Gras just the one time, when they were newlyweds. In the photo, Mary was wreathed in bright beads and had sunburned cheeks. He’d snapped the photo of her on Bourbon Street, Mary amid the jubilant crowd. The entire avenue was teeming with drunken tourists that day, the sky bright and clear. Hurricane Katrina was still a decade away.
He touched her cheek, then rose abruptly from his chair, the pain in his heart propelling him from his office.
Sleep... he needed sleep. His brain was congested with memories, most of them of today’s painful proceedings. That, and his brother-in-law’s wild confessions. His eyes felt like they were bulging from their sockets. He had to give his own hard drive some time to defrag. Everything felt jumbled in his skull, the craziness of his late wife’s childhood crowding out any kind of rational thought.
He walked upstairs to his bedroom and undressed. He didn’t shower. Though he knew he was rank, he was too tired to bathe. He flicked off the lights and slid into his sheets, staring up at the ceiling.
Images whirled around his head.
The funeral. His fight with Dean. Steve’s cigarette, spinning on his table.
Hank riffled through his memories, looking for some instance in his marriage that could possible be construed as “psychic”.
Nothing. He could remember nothing preternatural ever happening.
What about the toaster? a tiny voice spoke up in his head.
What about the toaster? he thought right back.
You know she didn’t throw it at you, don’t you?
I don’t know anything of the sort.
You do, though. You just blocked it out of your mind.
You’re crazy!
That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You’re the one talking to yourself.
Touché!
Maybe it was because he was half asleep, but he recalled the time Mary threw the toaster at him a little differently now. Perhaps it was Steve’s crazy tales influencing his exhausted brain, but the way he recalled the incident now, she didn’t lift the toaster off the counter and heave it at him. It simply took flight of its own. Whipped right off the counter at him like it had been fired from an invisible cannon. He couldn’t remember what they’d been arguing about, but Mary was furious with him that day. The toaster had barely missed him, struck the cabinet behind him with such force it came apart, little pieces of metal flying out of it like shrapnel.
Hank had seen it shoot through the air at him, untouched by human hands, but he’d instantly denied his own eyes. She must have whipped it by its cord or something, he told himself.
He’d squatted down and picked up the pieces, asking with a smirk if she felt better now, and she’d exclaimed No! and started crying.
What about that? Is that “psychic” enough for you? the tiny voice in his head asked smugly.
He didn’t have an answer for that. He was already drifting.
I’ll worry about it... in th’ morning, he said to himself.
So you’re going to run from the truth like you run from your feeling? You do an awful lot of running for such a big, strong man.
He didn’t deign to answer.
Sleep slammed down on his thoughts, extinguishing them in blackness.
28.
Steve Klegg flipped through his keys on the front stoop of the tract house he rented in Rader, Missouri. It was just starting to get dark, the shadows gangly, and the great oak trees that overlooked his neighborhood were shifting and creaking, shouldering one another as if they had secrets they didn’t want anyone to overhear. Several hours northeast, his brother-in-law was sitting at his dining room table, blowing against his palm to make a pencil spin around in circles. In Rader, Steve paused to look up at the sky, where a shelf cloud that vaguely resembled a Man-o’-war was slowing drifting southwards, bringing rain.
The weatherman on the radio had warned of severe thunderstorms the whole drive home. It looked like the meteorologist had finally scored one for the team. The atmosphere had a heavy, electric feel. Thunder rumbled in the distance like some Lovecraftian god clearing its throat.
Steve went inside, shut the door, turned on the living room lights and threw his bags on the sofa. The house smelled musty and closed-up. His cat, Little Miss Contrary, padded from the hallway, meowing loudly. Her tone was unmistakable. How dare he leave her home alone so long!
“Hey, girl!” Steve greeted her, smiling broadly. He squatted down and lifted the feline into his arms.
Miss Contrary meowed again, blinking at him with an indignant expression.
“I didn’t abandon you, girl,” Steve laughed, snuggling the plump gray cat. “I told you I’d be back in a couple days!”
Steve walked into the kitchen with the cat in his arms, flicking the lights on with his elbow as he went. He took a can of Nefertiti’s Nibbles from the cabinet and fumbled it onto the can opener one-handed.
“How about a little treat?” Steve asked. “To make up for leaving you all by yourself?”
Miss Contrary seemed to think that was a good idea.
He put her on the floor and finished opening the can, then spooned cat food onto a saucer. His companion circled his legs, her tail sticking straight up. He put the saucer on the floor and she started gobbling.
“That good, huh?” he asked, stroking her back.
Little Miss Contrary started purring. He was forgiven.
He watched his cat eat for a minute, then slouched into the living room. Home, he thought with relief. He kicked off his sneakers and flopped onto the recliner with a groan of pleasure.
His exhaustion suddenly weighed on him like a pallet of bricks. He surrendered to gravity, sank into the cushions of the La-Z-Boy. The bruises on his torso and thighs bitched. Dean had really worked him over.
He still couldn’t believe that he’d done such a foolish thing, that he’d driven to his mother’s house to confront his brother. What was he thinking? His mother wouldn’t even let him inside! Dean had stepped out to speak with him, and they’d gotten into it in just a matter of minutes. They’d argued in front of the garage until Dean finally lost control
. What felt like a dozen invisible fists had drummed into Steve’s body all at once, knocking him off his feet.
“God damn you!” Dean had hissed, his lips skinned back from his teeth, his eyes glaring in the weird blue radiance of the street lights. “See what you made me do, you little faggot?” A trickle of blood leaked from one of his nostrils, and he’d wiped it with his hand. He held his bloody palm out to Steve, as if to prove his guilt to him. In the blue light, his blood had looked black.
And then he’d started on the Bible quotes.
Steve scowled. He didn’t want to think about Dean. Not tonight. Not ever. He reached for the remote. It was on the coffee table next to his chair.
“What say we watch some TV, little lady,” he called to Miss Contrary.
He needed some mindless entertainment right now.
He heard the wind rise, and spicules of rainwater dotted the living room windows. Thunder rumbled. It sounded closer.
He flipped through the channels: commercial, commercial, commercial… Steve frowned at the flat screen TV. Corporate brainwashing! His eyes felt swollen and raw.
He’d cried driving home, his heart aching for his sister. The last three days felt like one long and unpleasant fever dream. Maybe it was his imagination, but Mary still seemed close to him. He could sense her presence, like he’d always been able to sense her presence. Some aspect of their mutual freakishness, he supposed. He could sense when Dean was near as well.
He watched television for a while, feeling hollowed out and lifeless. After a bit, Miss Contrary pounced into his lap and waited for him to pet her.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said with a tired smile. “I need some affection tonight.”
His cat arched her back as he ran his palm down her silky coat. She circled his thighs and sat down on his crotch, rumbling contentedly, her belly full now.
She was a big fluffy Maine coon, a gift from Preston. He’d bought the cat for Steve when they were still seeing one another. Steve had named her Miss Contrary, but she was actually an affable creature. Very loving.
He watched television for a while, too tired from the drive to do anything but sit and veg for a couple hours. He rose once to piss, rousing Miss Contrary from her nap. She shot him an accusatory glare before trotting into the kitchen. He grabbed a Coke from the fridge when he returned, then he flopped back down and reclined in his chair to watch a movie on TBS.
They were playing Master and Commander tonight, which was perfectly satisfactory. Russell Crowe was hot, even if the actor was a jackass in real life. Preston had looked a bit like Russell Crowe, just fatter-- and with a big, bushy beard. Well, okay, maybe he hadn’t really looked much like Russell Crowe.
By seven o’clock, Steve was sleeping soundly.
Miss Contrary padded back into the living room and jumped into his lap. Steve jerked a little when her paws came down on his balls. He patted her groggily until she settled down in her favorite spot, and then he was sleeping again, his head hanging back, his mouth open.
He slept, and after an hour or so, he started dreaming.
In his dream, he was a boy again, and mother had asked Dean to help Little Stevie and Mary with their bath. Back then, Steve and Mary had bathed together in the big clawfoot tub that was in the old house in Madison. Dean had hated the chore. Said it was gross seeing his little brother and sister naked. Mother said it was that or do the supper dishes, so Dean had herded the two toward the bathroom, a sullen expression on his acne-ridden face.
“Stop pushing!” Steve whined as his brother shoved him down the hallway.
“Shut up and move!” Dean snapped, keeping his voice low so his mother didn’t hear.
“I want Princess Priscilla!” Mary demanded. Princess Priscilla was her favorite Barbie. It was actually a Ballerina Barbie, but Mary had decided she was a fairy princess named Priscilla instead.
“No! You guys ain’t playing in the tub tonight! I got homework to do!”
“If she gets to have her Barbie doll, I want to bring my G.I. Joe’s,” Stevie said, then cried, “Ow!” as Dean thumped him on the back of the head.
“Move!” Dean snarled.
The house in Madison was built in forties and still had the original décor, although much of it had been damaged by previous renters. The bathroom was decorated with yellowish-green tiles and ornate porcelain and brass fixtures, but the porcelain was cracked in several places and had been repaired with some sort of glazing putty, and all the brass was green with neglect. The Kleggs had only recently moved in, following Jim Klegg’s promotion to Sergeant First Class, and mother hadn’t had time to make things nice yet.
Stevie and Mary’s pajamas were already laid out on the counter. Their mother had set them out earlier.
“Well hurry up,” Dean said, leaning over the tub to turn on the tap. “Get naked, you brats.”
“Don’t make it too hot this time, Dean,” Mary said, sitting down on the floor to pull off her shoes. “Last time you made the water too hot.”
Dean glowered at her.
“Can I get my G.I. Joe’s, Dean? Please?” Stevie pleaded.
“NO!”
Dean gathered up their clothes and threw them in the hamper as Stevie and Mary clambered into the tub, complaining the water was too cold. Dean told them to deal with it. As will happen, the sound of running water gave their big brother the urge to urinate. While Stevie and Mary shivered in the bath, Dean flipped up the lid of the toilet and unzipped. Mary pointed and exclaimed, “Ew! Look, Stevie, Dean’s wiener is all wrinkly and hairy!”
Stevie laughed.
“You brats better hurry up or I’ll pee in the bath tub,” Dean said as he whizzed.
“No-oooo! Yu-uuuucckk!” Mary and Stevie cried.
Dean finished urinating, shook off and then zipped up and flushed the toilet. Still frowning, he kneeled down to help his younger siblings wash their hair. The tub’s faucet had a sprayer attachment. He used it to rinse the shampoo from their hair, and then bopped Stevie in the head with it when he complained a second time how cold the water was.
He hit Stevie harder than he intended, and Stevie started crying.
“I’m telling Mom,” Mary said, and Dean grabbed her by the neck.
“You tell Mom and I’ll make you regret it!” Dean hissed.
Mary’s eyes bugged out, her hair still frothy with shampoo. Dean released her with a shove. He took a deep breath like Dad always told him to do when he lost his temper, then said in a gentler voice, “Guys, just be good, okay? Here, Mary, let me wash the shampoo out of your hair.”
“Okay,” Mary sniveled as his fingerprints faded from her neck. “Use the cup. I don’t like the sprayer.”
“All right.”
Stevie wiped his eyes, his head still stinging where Dean had whacked him with the sprayer. He watched Dean pour water over Mary’s soapy hair, rubbing the knot on his head, only in the dream it wasn’t water pouring out of the glass, it was blood. Stevie looked down and realized the whole tub was full of blood. Dean was dipping the glass in it and pouring it over Mary’s head.
And Mary…
Mary wasn’t little anymore, she was full grown and she was dead, sprawled in the tub with Stevie, her thighs lolling open, her breasts half-submerged. Both her arms were sliced open, and her eyes were milky and lifeless.
Dean scooped up a glass full of blood, poured it over Mary’s head. Blood ran down her cheeks, coursed across her shoulders and breasts.
Steve jerked awake on the recliner, coming up from sleep so violently he frightened Miss Contrary half to death. She jumped down and scampered for the bedroom.
Steve sat up with a moan, blinked around his living room with a confused and frightened expression.
“A dream!” he reassured himself, then, putting his face in his hands, “Oh, God, that was awful.”
Rain was sheeting against the windows. Master and Commander was over and Lopez Tonight was on. It was a quarter past midnight. He had been sleeping in the recliner for
hours.
Steve flicked the TV off and got to his feet. His limbs were stiff and his back had a kink in it from sleeping in a seated position so long. He stretched, listening to the vertebrae pop in his back. His shins were throbbing because of the rain. The bones in his legs always hurt when it rained. His collarbone, too.
“Need to get to bed, dummy,” Steve groaned.
He limped to the bathroom and peed. As he washed his hands in the sink, he recalled the horrible dream he’d just had. It was still vivid in his mind. His sister, naked and covered in blood.
That’s when he heard Mary’s voice.
He froze, his eyes growing wide, his hands still under the cold running tap. Every hair on his body was standing straight up.
“No,” he said evenly. “You didn’t hear that.”
He turned the faucet off and waited.
It came again.
“Steve.”
That was Mary’s voice! There was no denying it.
The room was suddenly ice cold. Lightning strobed in the window above the commode.
“Mary?” Steve whispered.
“You have to go back, Steve,” Mary pleaded. “Dean is going to hurt him.”
Then he saw her in the mirror. She was standing in the tub behind him, naked and glistening in blood. Her dark hair clung to her face in black tendrils. She had covered her breasts and groin with her hands, a gore-splattered Botticelli Venus. Her eyes and teeth were very white in the middle of all that dripping scarlet. The wounds in her forearms looked like elongated, bloody vaginas.
Steve screamed, screamed like a girl before clamping his hands over his mouth.
In the mirror, Mary reached out to him. “Please, Stevie!” she begged, “You have to help him!”
And then she melted.
Her body lost its substance and collapsed in a fluid column of blood and soap scum and hair and filth, all the vile detritus that must linger in the dark gullet beyond the drain. Some of it splashed back up and drew runic patterns on the white ceramic tiles and plastic shower curtain.